


Lancelot

by almostafantasia



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/F, Kingsman AU, it's basically just a secret agent au, you don't need to know anything about the kingsman films to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: Lexa Woods, an impeccably dressed British secret agent for the covert Kingsman organisation, whose latest mission sees her sneaking through the corridors of the White House in the middle of the night, finds herself having to seduce the daughter of the newly elected President of the United States in a bid to save the world. It’s a surprise to Lexa when she ends up falling for her target as fast as she does, meanwhile Clarke doesn’t expect her gorgeous date for an international political gala dinner to drag her into a world of thrill and danger where one wrong move could cause a global disaster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a brand new AU that I've been working on for a few months and I'm so excited to finally share it with the fandom. It should be noted that you don't need to have seen the Kingsman movies in order to read and enjoy this fic - there's barely any actual crossover at all, just the characters we know and love set in that particular universe.
> 
> I've had an absolute blast writing this fic and I hope you'll enjoy reading it just as much!

Lurking in the leafy shadows of the house’s extensive grounds, Lexa Woods - or Agent Lancelot, as she is known in the field - watches and waits. Her entire body thrums with the excitement of a new mission, counteracted only by the tiniest flutter of nerves in her gut. 

After four years in the field of intelligence, working for the covert Kingsman organisation that is based in a seemingly ordinary tailor’s shop right in the heart of London, Lexa has all the skills and experience for tonight’s heist. The task seems a simple one; break into the house, copy some files onto the USB drive safely tucked into her pocket, and get out again undetected. But Lexa knows that she can’t be complacent. The security in the house will be tight and it will take all of her training and mission instinct to pull it off.

Lexa has been lurking in this particular bush for almost two hours now, using a pair of slimline binoculars intended for birdwatching to keep her experienced eyes on the house, as well as small tablet to monitor the house’s ample security systems. The heist itself will probably only take her minutes, but choosing the wrong moment to approach and break into the building could cost Lexa the mission.

Lexa checks her equipment for what must be the tenth time, like she half expects something to have miraculously disappeared from her person in the eight minutes of sitting completely still since the last time she checked it all. The magazine pops out and back into the handle of her lightweight semi-automatic handgun with a satisfying click as she checks the ammunition inside. On her belt there are four grenades - two stun grenades, a smoke grenade, and a powerful explosive that Lexa hopes she won’t have to resort to using - a small torch, a concealed pouch of sleep darts, and the grappling hook she’s going to need to execute her plan of entering the house through the skylight on the roof.

It’s all exactly where Lexa needs it. Some people would say that Lexa’s insistence on checking everything too many times is just pernickety, perhaps even a waste of time, but it helps to calm Lexa’s nerves. There’s very little else to keep her mind busy as she waits for the opportune moment to strike, and knowing that everything is ready for her assault on the house, knowing that it is all just how she likes it, keeps Lexa at ease and prepared for what is about to happen.

She is, after all, Kingsman’s best agent for a reason - that reason being that she is always focused and completely unflappable in the field.

The house has been still for nearly forty-five minutes, since a bathroom light went out on the upper floor. Lexa has been biding her time ever since, waiting for the right moment. And there have probably been hundreds of right moments in those forty-five minutes, but Lexa wants the  _ perfect _ one.

But the longer she waits for that perfect moment to strike, the more her nerves start to build up, and the less likely that moment is to arise at all.

It takes nothing more than a few quick taps on the screen of her tablet, and a tense thirty seconds of waiting, but the words  _ ALARM DISABLED _ flash up on the tablet in green letters and Lexa breathes a sigh of relief. But there’s no time to celebrate. Hacking into and disabling the security mainframe is only the first part of a difficult mission. Lexa still needs to make it in and out of the house alive and now is the time to make her move.

Lexa slots the tablet back into the compact backpack she wears over her all-black outfit, and then carefully double-checks her surroundings, paying particular attention to the tall windows that line the south side of the house for any sign of movement. With the alarm disabled and all of her equipment ready, Lexa is satisfied that now is as good of a time as any. She emerges from the thick covering of trees in the far corner of the garden next to the hole in the fence that she used to get into the grounds, and makes a dash for the house. Lexa keeps her head down, sprinting quickly but quietly, with her hand poised over the handle of her gun, ready to draw it from its holster in an instant should the need arise.

Lexa is grateful for her training because when she reaches the house, she isn’t out of breath at all, as if she has just taken a leisurely walk rather than a two hundred yard sprint at top speed across a dew-covered lawn. Not even her left knee, sometimes stricken with aches from an old injury she sustained during the brief time she spent in the British army, gives any indication of being put under strain.

Lexa presses herself against the wall of the house and glances at the device on her wrist, not for the time, but looking for dots on a radar that might show a radio frequency from inside the house. There’s nothing, but Lexa is experienced enough to know that this doesn’t mean there isn’t further security inside the house. She has the latest high-tech equipment, but so do her opponents.

Glancing up, Lexa examines the sheer white face of the house’s exterior wall and spots the guttering along the edge of the roof – perfect for grappling up the side and getting onto the roof.

Lexa detaches the grappling hook from her belt and points it towards the roof, aiming with the precision that comes from a three-day training course last month dedicated only to using grappling hooks. Before the course, Lexa had no idea that there were three days of teaching material on grappling hooks and to be completely honest, even after taking the course she still struggles to work out how they dragged it out for so long, but when the hook lands on the roof with precise ease and then catches on the gutter exactly where she aimed it, Lexa is grateful for the extensive practise.

The rest of Lexa’s training kicks in like second nature. She clips the other end of the grappling hook back onto her belt and tests the strength of the wire, pulling it taught to check that the hook isn’t going to slip. Once satisfied, Lexa presses the button and the wire starts to reel in, lifting Lexa into the air. She steadies herself with her feet against the wall, effectively running up the side of the house with the help of the wire as it coils up.

Oddly, Lexa feels safer on the roof than she did on the ground. From up here, Lexa has a view out over the large gardens and beyond, where the occasional set of car headlights flash past along the road on the other side of the tall security fence. The only way to Lexa’s position is the same route that she took – up the side of the house – and Lexa would have a few seconds to prepare for such an eventuality.

With the grappling hook back on her belt, Lexa withdraws another piece of equipment from her backpack and dashes across the roof to the skylight. This device is easy enough to use, and Lexa attaches the suction pads to the window, then programs the laser to cut a circular path through the glass. Once finished, Lexa removes the sheet of glass, leaving a round hole just big enough for a slim body to climb through, which is exactly what Lexa does. She lowers herself through the newly cut hole, biceps straining as she descends carefully, before dropping onto the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

Inside the house, Lexa knows that her immediate danger is much greater, but her goal is even closer than before and she doesn’t doubt for a second that she has the skills to succeed. She checks the radar on her wrist once more for signs of activity – still nothing – and draws her gun, loading the first cartridge into the barrel with a mechanical click. Her gun poised, though she hopes that she won’t have to use it, Lexa creeps down the hallway. The map of the house that Lexa studied in depth before this mission swims to the front of her mind, so clear that Lexa feels as though she has lived here for half her life, even though she has never set foot in this building before.

She finds the office that she’s looking for with ease, and does another quick sweep of the area before she enters, pushing the door closed behind her as she enters and crosses over to the desk that dominates the room. The office is every bit as grand as the rest of the house, a large room with a rug that covers most of the wooden floor and oil paintings lining the wall behind the mahogany desk.

As her eyes quickly adjust to the gloom of the office, Lexa walks around behind the desk and drops into the chair. One hand stays on her gun as the other reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small USB drive, which she plugs into the computer on the desk.

Hacking has never been Lexa’s forte. She’s always preferred the physical side of things, excelling at tasks that require strength or stealth. She’s physically fit, and though she is clever too, the smarts that she possesses come in the form of being able to think quickly on her feet, using a combination of rational thought and logic to overcome obstacles even in the face of extreme danger to both herself and others. Computers, or at least anything more complex than a basic spreadsheet, go straight over Lexa’s head.

Thankfully, this is a pretty easy hack. The USB does most of the work and Lexa just has to sit there and observe the software loaded onto it as it gains access to the computer. Once inside, Lexa runs a search of the computer’s hard drive for the files that she needs. They’re encrypted, but that’s a problem for somebody else later down the line, and all Lexa has to do is copy them across to the USB.

It’s an anxious few minutes as the green bar on the screen slowly fills up.

Lexa sighs with relief when it finally finishes copying the files over onto the USB. She quickly goes about covering her tracks, removing all trace of recent activity on the computer, before ejecting the USB and switching off the machine. The room fills with darkness as the monitor, the only previous source of light, falls black, and as Lexa slips the USB back into her pocket, she raises her gun once more and heads for the door.

Before she leaves the office, Lexa peeks her head out of the door and scans both ways down the corridor. When she is happy that her way ahead is clear, she leaves the office and closes the door behind her, and dashes down the hallway. The carpeted floor muffles Lexa’s footsteps, but her gun is poised and ready for action, while her ears listen out for any sign of movement in the house.

As anxious as she is about the possibility of being caught so close to the end, it is the moments like this that Lexa lives for. Her heart pounds in her chest with the rhythmic beat of a hundred war drums, pumping adrenaline through every vein in her body. It’s a high, the same kind of rush that Lexa would get during sports games when she was playing for her school team, or when she approaches a pretty girl who has been looking at her from across the room. Lexa has always been a thrill-seeker, thriving under extreme pressure, and it is perhaps that which makes her such a good agent - how the entire world could be on the brink of collapse but the exhilarating rush of being in such a pressurised situation would be all that is needed for Lexa to perform to her best and save the day.

Which is exactly what she needs to do now.

Lexa creeps down the staircase, gun still raised. Moonlight shines through the tall downstairs windows, creating shadows through the slats of the railings lining the stairs, and the silvery-white glow only makes the atmosphere in the house seem eerier. 

But Lexa is ready. She’s made it this far and she isn’t going to let her nerves get the better of her after everything she’s gone through up until now. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and her goal is in sight. The front door is just at the end of this hallway, and when she’s made it through that it’s just another quick sprint across the garden to the gap in the fence and then both she and the USB drive containing a copy of the computer’s files are free. 

Lexa is so busy thinking ahead to the completion of the mission, that when her ears pick up on a soft thud in one of the downstairs rooms behind her, she startles.

With her gun raised and ready for action, Lexa turns to face the direction of the noise. She peers through the darkness, looking for a sign of movement or a shift in the shape of the shadows, though she sees neither. It may have put a slight delay on her escape, but Lexa has a major advantage now -  _ she knows where her opponent is _ .

Though Lexa smiles to herself in triumph, she realises that she faces a small dilemma. It would be so easy to creep towards the source of the noise and take down her opponent before she makes her escape from the house, guaranteeing her safety. But on the other hand, that was never supposed to be part of the plan. She’s evaded her enemy this far, and the USB containing the information that she came here for is safely in her pocket. And though leaving through the front door might draw her opponent’s attention to her presence, Lexa is confident that she has the speed to escape across the garden and out of the grounds of the house before they would be able to catch her.

In the end, it is Lexa’s hesitation that is her downfall, and she doesn’t hear the person behind her, in the complete opposite direction to the noise that distracted her, until it is too late.

“Put the gun on the floor and your hands in the air.”

Shivers trickle down Lexa’s spine like droplets of icy cold water. There’s a smug air to the woman’s voice, like she already believes that she’s beaten Lexa. But Lexa doesn’t allow herself to accept defeat yet, instead choosing to steady her racing heart with a few deep breaths, reminding herself that she’s Kingsman’s best agent as she already starts mentally devising her daring escape.

“I’m shooting you in three, two, one-“

Lexa hears the click of the safety being turned off and realises that the woman is serious. She takes her finger off the trigger of her own weapon and raises it in the air to show her compliance, before bending down to place it on the ground. Once the gun is on the floor, Lexa lifts her hands above her head again and slowly turns to face her opponent.

Lexa is quietly confident. Her gun may be on the floor out of easy reach, but she’s a highly trained agent and that’s not her only weapon. She runs through each of the others that she has on her body – the different types of grenades, the sleep darts, even the small knife strapped to her calf – and cycles through each one in her mind, plotting how she could use each to escape from this house virtually unscathed.

“You’re stupider than I thought you would be,” says Lexa’s opponent, and before Lexa even has time to process the flash of orange from the barrel of the gun in the other woman’s hand or the crack of a gunshot filling the room, there’s a sharp pain in Lexa’s abdomen where the bullet hits her.

In all the scenarios in her head, not one of them considered the fact that the woman would be cold enough to shoot Lexa while her hands were still raised above her head in surrender. The force of the shot knocks the wind out of Lexa and the pain is enough for her to bend over slightly at the hips, but the feeling that overwhelms Lexa is not one of pain, but of defeat.

She has lost. The mission is over.

Lexa knows that she probably wouldn’t die from a bullet to the abdomen but it still hurts like hell, and when she touches her hand to the area in disbelief and then lifts it up for inspection, her fingers come away sticky.

Grimacing through the pain, Lexa glances up at her attacker, who wears the smug smile of victory, and asks, “Seriously? I put my gun down. There was no need to shoot me.”

The lights suddenly come on, dazzling Lexa’s eyes so that she has to shield them from the brightness. Once her eyes have adjusted, Lexa can see that the stickiness on her fingers is just bright orange paint, and her stomach is covered in a splatter of the same where the simulation bullet hit her and exploded.

The culprit, fellow Kingsman agent Anya, known professionally as Agent Galahad, holsters her gun and replies with a smirk of victory, “Just playing the part of the villain - it’s so much  _ fun _ being the bad guy for a change. And you know I’ll never pass up an opportunity to kick your arse.”

“You just got lucky,” scowls Lexa, wiping the paint from her fingers onto the leg of her trousers as she bends down and reaches out with the other hand to collect her discarded gun from the floor.

“You can’t blame bad luck when something goes wrong in the field,” Anya tells her.

Lexa feels her left knee twinge in pain, the old injury from years ago flaring up as it does so every now and then, and she wonders if maybe she did something to it while running across the dewy lawn, or when she dropped down through the hole in the skylight. Either way, the pain in her knee is minor compared to the sting that she feels at being beaten by Anya.

Lexa’s jaw clenches and her eyebrows furrow together, but she doesn’t get the chance to say anything else because there’s a slight crackle as a speaker concealed somewhere in the house comes to life, projecting the lilting Scottish accent of Merlin, Kingsman’s only non-field operative and the person in charge of all training exercises the agents are put through to keep their skills as refined as possible.

“Not bad, Lancelot,” says Merlin, “but you can’t let yourself get complacent until after you’ve made your escape. Excellent work, Galahad. We’ll do a full debrief at headquarters in the morning. Goodnight, ladies.”

The speaker falls silent and Lexa is left with the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth.

“No need to look so glum,” Anya says, wrapping an arm around Lexa’s shoulders. “You’ll be fine against any real bad guys because they aren’t as clever as me.”

“And probably not as modest either,” says Lexa dryly, shrugging off Anya’s arm.  “Do you want a ride home?”

“Given up on your career as a secret agent to become a chauffeur?” grins Anya. “Come on, Lex. You weren’t that bad.”

If it were anybody else making a comment like that, Lexa would probably forgo the good manners and ethos of respect maintained by the Kingsman organisation and its agents by socking the other person around the face with her fist. But because it’s Anya, who would not only have Lexa on the floor in a dangerous headlock before Lexa could even think about raising her arm but is Lexa’s oldest friend and has been making comments like that for over ten years, Lexa lets it drop.

Anya may have beaten her this time, but there’ll be a hundred more chances to get her revenge in the future.

Lexa leads the way towards the front door, trying her best to ignore the ache in her knee with each step that she takes.

“You need to work on your fake limp,” comments Anya.

“It’s not fake,” says Lexa turning as she walks so that she can roll her eyes at Anya. “You know damn well I’ve got a bad knee.”

“And it’s funny how you never seem to have a bad knee when it’s you beating me,” shrugs Anya, the very corner of her mouth turning up ever so slightly.

Lexa opens the front door and stands in the doorway with a hand on her hip, blocking Anya’s way out, then asks, “Do you want me to leave you to get the tube home?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” challenges Lexa.

Anya falls oddly silent and Lexa smiles to herself in triumph. She turns around again and steps out into the brisk night, shivering as a gust of chilly wind hits her, mentally plotting the quickest route to the car she parked a few streets away.

They make it only a few paces before Anya’s voice pipes up again, still laced with smugness.

“Were you actually going to make your escape through the front door?”

“Shut up."

* * *

 

“To spring break!” says Raven, raising her beer bottle over the table.

Clarke lifts her own drink, closely followed by Octavia and Lincoln, and the four tap their glasses together with a few soft clinks.

“I’m so excited to go to the Bahamas,” says Octavia, leaning into her boyfriend’s side as Lincoln wraps his free arm around Octavia’s shoulder. “Two weeks of drinking cocktails on the beach and swimming in the ocean.”

“Normally I would be insanely jealous,” replies Raven, “but I’ll be spending part of the break at Clarke’s. You know, at the freaking  _ White House _ .”

Clarke’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at the mention of her new home. If it can even be called her home yet. Clarke still considers the house in the suburbs of New Hampshire that she grew up in to be her home, while the White House is just a well-known building in DC that Clarke holds no personal attachment to. It’s just the President’s House.

The President, who so happens to be Clarke’s mother.

It still hasn’t really sunk in yet. It’s been nearly two months since the inauguration, and another two before that since the election that won Abby her presidency, but even before that there were years of campaigns and primaries and so much time for Clarke to prepare herself for the possibility that her mom could become the President.

And yet it’s still such a weird thought. Clarke feels like a normal college student and it’s only when she sees paparazzi photographs of her own face on the front of gossip magazines detailing her latest “party-girl” antics, or sees every news outlet plastered with reports on what her mom has been up to in her first couple of months of presidency, that it hits her that this is her life now.

“I can’t wait to ask your mom to give me an internship at NASA,” Raven sighs dreamily, smiling to herself.

“That’s not how it works,” Clarke raises a curious eyebrow at Raven, who pouts in response. “My mom will hardly be around anyway. She’s very busy. You know, being the  _ President _ .”

“Lame.”

Raven rolls her eyes and takes a sip from her beer, but she’s only quiet for a few seconds before a look flashes through her eyes. And it’s a look that Clarke recognises all too well, one that usually precedes some kind of crazy scheme that ends up either getting them into trouble or leading them to do something they end up regretting. Or both.

“Do you think I’ll be able to take a trip in Air Force One?” she asks Clarke. Raven’s eyes widen even further, before she asks, “Oh my god, do you think I’ll be allowed to  _ fly _ it?”

Across the table, Octavia snorts and shakes her head, a sentiment that Clarke echoes with words.

“Absolutely not,” she tells Raven.

Raven slumps back in her seat in disappointment, though how she can possibly have been expecting a different answer is beyond Clarke - for a highly intelligent aerospace engineer, Raven can be incredibly dense sometimes.

“Can I at least get a photo in the cockpit?” Raven asks Clarke, a pleading tone to her voice. “Imagine the boost my tinder profile will get with that as one of my pictures.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Why have I even invited you to visit again?” she asks Raven teasingly.

“Clarke, it’s probably not too late to book a last minute flight to the Bahamas and spend spring break with us,” Octavia suggests.

Even though Clarke knows that Octavia is joking, she does actually consider it. It would be nice to spend spring break as the normal college student she was before her mom ran for President, to be able to spend two weeks soaking up the sun on sandy beaches, lounging around a beautiful swimming pool during the day and enjoying late evenings of colourful cocktails and dancing. To not have to worry about paparazzi following her or strangers doing a double-take when they pass her on the streets or the two Secret Service agents that follow her around campus wherever she goes to ensure her safety.

Clarke is so incredibly proud of her mom and everything that she has achieved in her political career so far, both before the election and now that her first term as America’s first female President is underway, but sometimes she wishes that it could be happening to somebody else’s mom. Enjoying spring break like every other college student seems like such a foreign idea, when Clarke instead has two weeks of living in a house that probably won’t ever feel like a home, two weeks of public appearances culminating in some kind of fancy political dinner that feels like an episode out of somebody else’s life.

Sometimes she wishes that she could just be  _ normal _ again.

“I can’t,” Clarke tells Octavia, full of regret. She pushes her own feelings to the back of her mind for later, and then jokes, “I’ve got to get Raven that picture in Air Force One. I wouldn’t want her to miss out on any potential tinder dates.”

Raven snakes her arm around Clarke’s back and leans into her side, taking a sip from her drink before she says, “You’re the best, Clarke.”

And though Clarke doesn’t yet know what the next two weeks are going to hold for her, there is nothing that can possibly prepare her for what will be the craziest spring break of her life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredible response to the first chapter, especially to all of you who left me lovely comments! It makes me so happy that there are people out there as excited for this story as I am and I hope that you continue to enjoy it as the story progresses!

“The heads of government of the twelve countries involved in the Green Planet Initiative have started arriving in Paris for the final negotiations on the agreement. Amongst those arriving is the newly elected President of the United States, Abigail Griffin, in what is to be her first official visit to Europe since her inauguration in Jan-”

The car radio cuts off mid-newscast as Lexa parks her Bentley at the side of the road and removes the key from the ignition. Leaning over the central console until she can see herself in the rear-view mirror and check her appearance, Lexa combs her fingers through her long hair to sweep it out of her face, then reaches up with the other hand to touch the knot of her tie, adjusting it until it sits centrally at the collar of her crisp white shirt.

Once happy with her appearance, Lexa opens the car door and steps out onto the pavement, hooking her finger under the collar of the tweed jacket that has been draped across the passenger seat. Outside the car, Lexa slips her arms into the jacket and does the button up at the front, smoothing the fabric down and extending her arms out so that the sleeves fit just right, showing a perfect half-inch of shirt at her cuffs.

Kingsman Tailors might be a front for a covert intelligence organisation, but there is no question about the fact that they make damn fine suits too.

Inside the shop, there is nothing that wouldn’t be out of place in a normal high-end tailor’s. The dark green wallpaper and mahogany panelling provides an elegant backdrop for shelves of suit trousers and ties, as well as the mannequins that model well-cut suits. There’s an assistant working on one of the suits, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a tape measure dangling around his neck as he carefully pins the sleeves of the jacket he works on.

“Morning Fletch!” Lexa greets the tailor with a smile.

“Good morning, ma’am,” says Fletch, looking up from the jacket that he’s adjusting and nodding his head in Lexa’s direction. “Your new suit is waiting for you in the dressing room at the top of the stairs. Somebody will be up shortly to check that it fits.”

Though she knows full well that there is no dressing room at the top of the stairs, Lexa smiles her thanks to keep up the pretence and climbs the stairs at the back of the shop to reach the upper floor, then pushes open the heavy double doors to enter the meeting room. At the far end of the long table that dominates the room, Anya sits in quiet conversation with Arthur, the head of the Kingsman organisation, while Merlin waits just by the door, his fingers tapping away at the screen of his tablet.

“Ah, Lancelot,” says Arthur, lifting his head as he hears the door open and smiling warmly when he sees Lexa. Gesturing to the chair to his right, the one opposite Anya, he continues, “Please do take a seat.”

Lexa does as instructed, unbuttoning her jacket as she sits down, before looking around expectantly as she waits for one of the others to speak.

Merlin steps closer, lifting his attention from his tablet as he says, “I’m afraid our debrief of last night’s training exercise is going to have to wait. There are rather more urgent matters to discuss.” Looking at Lexa, he adds, “Your glasses, Lancelot.”

Lexa reaches inside her jacket to retrieve a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. No ordinary pair of spectacles, when Lexa puts the special Kingsman-issue glasses on her face, she is greeted with holographic projections of ten other agents filling the remaining seats around the table.

Merlin taps once on the screen of his tablet and an image appears on the screen positioned on the wall. Lexa turns in her seat to look at it, and finds herself looking a photograph of a familiar building; white walls lined with windows, four tall columns, and a fountain in the middle of a well-kept lawn.

“The White House,” Merlin tells the room, though there will not be a single agent who doesn’t recognise the building in the picture. “The official residence of the President of the United States.” Merlin taps his tablet and a smaller image appears in the top corner of the screen, which Lexa recognises as a photograph of President Abigail Griffin, before he continues, “Since President Griffin began her term in office, there have been three security breaches at the White House. The US government has been trying to keep it hushed down, but somehow the press has caught wind and it made the headlines this morning.”

“So the Americans have a faulty security system?” asks Anya, raising a single dubious eyebrow. “Why is that of interest to us?”

“Because it’s happened three times in the last month,” answers Merlin.

“Once is a mistake,” Lexa muses aloud, “twice could be a coincidence, but three times is suspicious.”

“Exactly,” agrees Merlin. “But there’s no indication of what might have caused these breaches. As far as we can tell, there has been no sign of an intruder on any of these occasions, nor has anything been taken or damaged.”

Lexa’s curiosity is piqued and she leans forward in her chair, though Anya remains sceptical.

“So a ghost who can hack through government systems is taunting the US President?” shrugs Anya. “What can we do about that?”

“There must be a reason behind the security breaches, even if we don’t know what it is,” speaks up one of the other Kingsman agents.

“The best case scenario is that whoever is behind these breaches is doing it just because they can,” says Merlin. “Perhaps a bored computer science student with too much time on their hands.”

“But if they can hack into the White House, who’s to say what they might attempt next?” interjects Arthur.

“What’s the worst case scenario?” Lexa asks Merlin, an unsettling feeling starting to develop in the pit of her stomach as she tries to imagine what kind of nefarious scheme could be being orchestrated by somebody who can break into what must be one of the most secure buildings in the world.

“That it’s not just a security breach,” answers Merlin. “That somebody has used the system’s downtime to get into the White House and done something undetectable inside before making their escape.”

Anya, who still doesn’t seem to think that the situation needs to be taken seriously, smirks to herself as she chuckles, “What like taken a sharpie pen to graffiti their initials on the inside of a toilet cistern for some poor sod to find when they refit the bathroom in twenty years?”

“Probably more like they planted a bomb,” says Lexa.

She intends it as a throwaway comment, something a little more serious to counter Anya’s general ridicule for the situation, but it sounds a lot darker aloud than it did in Lexa’s head. When Merlin grimaces and nods, the upset in Lexa’s stomach is replaced by an empty dread as she realises that her words could be closer to the truth than anticipated.

“So our ghost might be a terrorist?” winces Anya, finally understanding the potential weight of the security breaches.

“Like I said, that’s the _worst_ case scenario,” says Merlin, though his words do very little to comfort Lexa from the thought that some unknown opponent might be plotting to blow up the White House. “There are any number of motives. We just need to find out what the right one is before it’s too late.”

“And who is behind it,” agrees Arthur.

“But there are thousands of people who could want to hurt Abigail Griffin or cause irreparable damage to her career,” Lexa reminds the rest of the room. “After four years of fascism, it’s probably a big shock for a lot of her opponents to have to accept such a liberal President.”

“Not to mention the fact that there are probably a lot of very narrow-minded people unhappy with having a female President,” adds one of the other agents.

“So President Griffin has a lot of enemies, at least one of whom is actively taking steps against her,” says Anya, a slow grin spreading across her face, though Lexa can’t understand what reason she would have for smiling when there is a threat against one of the world’s most influential leaders. “And we have no idea who it is or what their plan might be. You know what, I’m liking this more and more. I love a good mystery.”

“Good,” says Merlin. “Because I’m assigning this mission to you. And Lancelot,” he adds, turning to Lexa. “You make a great team and we’re sending you both to Washington to find out what’s going on. We trust you’ll be able to work it out before it’s too late.”

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise. She knows that she’s a good agent, and that Anya is too, but everybody at Kingsman is a highly skilled intelligence operative. The rigorous training and selection process ensures that. But she’s still surprised that Merlin and Arthur have chosen her to accompany Anya to America for this job, rather than any of the other agents that are currently projected around the long table.

Lexa has been involved in some dangerous and often high pressure situations during the three years she’s been a part of this organisation, but she can’t think of a single one that beats flying to America for a mission that could potentially save the life of the President. She thinks that it’s the unknown that is what will make this mission her most challenging one yet, the fact that they have no idea who or even what they are up against. This could just as easily be a bored hacker having a bit of fun with a complex security system as it could be a plot to assassinate the leader of the free world.

And Lexa is determined to do all she can to make sure that nothing happens to President Griffin. Which is why she turns to Merlin, swallows down her nerves, and then asks, “So when is our flight?”

* * *

Clarke flings the final item of clothing into the already too full suitcase just as she hears a knock on the door. She flips the lid shut, not bothering to zip it up yet because she knows that she's going to struggle to manage on her own, then rushes over to the door, unlocking and opening it. She's so enthusiastic with the door that it swings open and hits the wall behind it with a thud, but Clarke doesn't care about that when she sees her father's smiling face looking down at her from the corridor outside her dorm room.

"Daddy!" she squeals excitedly, surging forwards with her arms held wide and nearly knocking Jake Griffin over with the force of her hug.

"Whoa!" Jake stumbles back in surprise, before his arms encircle Clarke and draw her into a tight embrace. "Hey there, monkey!"

Clarke inhales deeply, relaxing as her father's scent engulfs her. He smells just the same as he always has done - coffee and cologne and something earthy that reminds Clarke of lost summers playing in the backyard, of Jake seeing how high he could push Clarke on the rope swing before the thrill got too much and he would chase her inside for homemade lemonade. So many things have changed in Clarke's life since elementary school, but the way that Jake smells, the way that his strong arms feel wrapped around her, is just like it was when Clarke was a seven year-old who thought her father was a superhero.

"I missed you," she tells him truthfully.

"I missed you too," replies Jake. "We both have."

Jake releases Clarke from the hug, though not before ruffling her hair with one of his big hands, and she lets out a whine as a few of the messy blonde locks tumble across her face.

"Dad!"

"Clarke," Jake quips back, mocking Clarke's whiny tone, and she sticks her tongue out at him in response. "Are you ready to go? The cars are parked outside and I don't want to keep them waiting too long."

Clarke nods as she does a final sweep of the room for anything she might have forgotten, picking her laptop up off the bed and sliding it into its protective case before putting it and the charger into the backpack by the door.

"I still don't understand why I couldn't just get a train home," complains Clarke. She looks up at Jake with as much seriousness as she can muster, before continuing, "Do you know how embarrassing it is to be the President's daughter without being escorted home for spring break by a fleet of cars?"

"It's only protocol," shrugs Jake. "Your mom's job is stressful enough without having to worry about you getting stalked by the press on the way home from college."

"I'm a big girl," pouts Clarke, swinging her backpack over one shoulder and then hooking the other arm through the second strap so that it sits comfortably on her back. "I can look after myself."

"I know you can, sweetie," agrees Jake. He points at the suitcase, with its lid barely hiding the fact that it is overflowing with clothes, and asks, "Is this the bag you're taking home?"

Clarke nods, and gestures to two small duffel bags that are zipped up and placed in a neat pile beside the door, then says, "And those two over there."

Jake crosses over to her suitcase and bends down next to it, leaning on it with all his bodyweight as he attempts to wrestle the zip closed.

"Are you coming home for two weeks or moving out of the dorm permanently?" he asks, voice slightly breathless from the effort of trying to close a suitcase that Clarke has crammed way too much into.

"Ha ha,” Clarke deadpans. “Very funny. Carry the heavy one, will you?"

Clarke picks up one of the duffels in each hand and watches as Jake finally triumphs over the zip of the suitcase. He gets to his feet and stands the suitcase up, extending the handle so that he can wheel it along behind him.

"What did your last slave die of?" he teases.

"I locked him up and left him to die when he refused to carry my bags,” grins Clarke. “Come on!"

"You're very bossy today, young lady,” says Jake, following Clarke out of her dorm room with the suitcase being towed along behind him, and he waits as Clarke drops one of the bags she’s carrying to fish around in the pocket of her jeans for the key to lock her door.

"I'm a pretty big deal, you know,” Clarke tells him, locking her dorm with a click and putting the key back into her pocket, before she picks up the bag again and leads the way towards the staircase at the end of the hallway. “I don't know if you've heard, but my mom is President of the United States."

"You sound just like her,” says Jake, shaking his head at Clarke, though the smile that graces his lips tells an entirely different story - that he wouldn’t change the recent events and how it has affected his family’s lives at all. “She likes to remind me that she could have me thrown in prison for treason if I do so much as make her a bad cup of coffee."

"Oh!” exclaims Clarke, her eyes widening in glee as she continues, “I am _so_ using that one next time I get approached by some creepy guy in a bar!"

"You get approached by creeps?” asks Jake, and Clarke’s insides sink as she realises that she’s just revealed one of the less appealing sides of college life to a very protective father. “Perhaps we should up your security..."

"No, no!” says Clarke, quick to correct her mistake. “I was just kidding! It's already bad enough having two secret service agents dressed as college students following me around everywhere I go!"

They reach the ground floor of Clarke’s accommodation block and Jake pushes open the glass door and holds it open for Clarke so that she can bring her bags outside. As soon as she makes it out of the building, she notices the three cars parked at the side of the road, all jet black and with darkened windows, and it finally hits her that she’s going to be travelling to the White House in some kind of presidential convoy.

They load up the luggage quickly and get into the back of the middle of the three vehicles, and when the cars start to pull away, they are barely on the move for a minute before Jake pulls out his phone and searches through it for some music. He finds a playlist called _Clarke_ and leans forward to ask the driver if he can connect the phone to the car’s speakers, and as soon as he gets an affirmative the car is filled with the sound of songs that remind Clarke of her youth. It’s like her dad knows exactly what to do to make Clarke feel like she’s still at home, even when her entire world has been upended.

She voices this to Jake.

"I was worried that everything would change after Mom got elected,” she tells him.

"We're always going to be Mom, Dad, and Clarke,” Jake replies. He grins and then adds, “No matter how many followers I get on the Twitter."

"Dad,” says Clarke, letting out a monumental groan, “for the last time, it doesn't matter how many followers you get, if you call it "the Twitter" then you're still a hideously uncool fifty-two year old."

There’s a twinkle in Jake’s blue eyes as he quips back, “Tell that to my fanbase.”

* * *

“Do you remember the last time we went to America?”

Lexa glances up as they shuffle forward in the check-in line at the airport, passports in hand, and racks her brain to remember the time that Anya is talking about. Lexa has visited America a few times in recent years, though never with Anya as a companion. In fact, the only time she can remember travelling to America with Anya was a ten day visit to New York with their school choir way back when Lexa was a scrawny fourteen year old and Anya was the gorgeous sixth former that all the younger girls aspired to be like.

“The choir trip?” she asks Anya.

“Ah, the memories,” Anya sighs nostalgically. “Do you remember the last night?”

“When you snuck half the choir into your hotel room after lights out and we passed around a bottle of vodka?” Lexa winces at the memory, specifically at the memory of the struggle to survive the seven hour flight back to England the following day whilst trying to conceal her first ever hangover from the choir director. “I wish I didn’t.”

“You know, that was the night that I started to like you.”

“Gee, _thanks_.”

Lexa’s friendship with Anya goes way back to their shared days at an elite girls’ boarding school in Oxfordshire, when Lexa moved up to the senior school from the junior preparatory school across the road and was assigned Anya as her student mentor. To find out that Anya didn’t actually start liking her as a friend until more than two years later, frankly, has Lexa feeling a little offended.

“Are you really so surprised?” asks Anya. “You hardly said a word to me for two years, even in our mentoring sessions.

“You were intimidating,” Lexa attempts to justify the actions of her younger self.

“And you were _gay_.”

Lexa flushes a deep red, as she always does when Anya chooses to remind her of the fact that Anya was one of the first girls Lexa was attracted to. Lexa often wishes that she never confessed that to her older friend, something which happened on another occasion after being plied by Anya’s alcohol, many years after that first instance in the hotel room in New York as teenagers.

Thankfully, Lexa is saved from having to reply when they reach the front of the line, and they step forward to the check-in desk.

“Girls’ trip away?” asks the attendant behind the desk, making friendly conversation as she weighs their bags and checks their passports.

“Something like that,” Anya smiles elusively.

Both of them know full well that they can’t admit their true reason for travelling to the States. Lexa thinks that confessing _we might attempt to break into the White House_ would probably have them taken away by airport security before they can even board the plane.

“Have a nice flight,” says the check-in attendant, returning their passports and boarding cards to them as she presses a button beneath the desk to send their bags onto the travelator behind her.

“Thanks,” Lexa says with a sweet smile.

Lexa hoists her carry-on bag up onto her shoulder as they move away from the check-in desk.

“Do you want to get some breakfast or should we go straight through security and hit up duty-free?” grins Anya.

“You do know that this isn’t just a holiday, right?” Lexa asks, raising her eyebrows at Anya’s casual approach to a potentially critical mission. “It’s not going to be like that choir trip. We have something very important to do.”

“I know!” Anya insists. “Of course I do. Just because I’m not as ‘ _work, work, work_ ’ as you, it doesn’t mean I don’t take this job seriously.”

Lexa immediately regrets ever calling Anya’s integrity into question. Anya has been in this business for longer than Lexa has and is one of the finest agents that Kingsman has. Not that you would be able to tell from the way that Anya has arrived at the airport in sweatpants and with a travel pillow under one arm, compared to Lexa’s fitted tan-coloured chinos and a loose white button up with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

And maybe _that_ is what makes Anya such a fine agent. Sure, Lexa has an impeccable track record on missions and you would be hard-pushed to find somebody more devoted to their job. But not a single person in this airport could possibly look at Anya right now and suspect that she’s a secret agent on her way to Washington DC to foil a nefarious plot crafted by an unknown evil.

“Sorry,” says Lexa. “This could be a really crucial mission and I want it to go well.”

“And it will,” Anya assures her with a smile, “because it’s you and me working it. The dream team.”

“You’re right,” agrees Lexa. “We’ve got this.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So what’s the plan?”

Having finally made it to their hotel room in Washington D.C., Lexa asks the question as she unpacks her suitcase, so casually that she might as well be asking what their lunch plans are, not how they’re intending to break into the White House.

“Well I thought I’d send you in and I’ll provide support from the outside,” replies Anya, who sits cross-legged on Lexa’s bed.

“Wait, what?” asks Lexa.

It’s not the answer she’s expecting to receive, and Lexa’s head snaps up, momentarily distracted from hanging up her clothes. At first she thinks that it must be a joke, that this is just another one of Anya’s ways of playfully keeping Lexa on her toes, but Anya’s expression betrays no sign of teasing. She appears to be deadly serious.

“You go in and I’ll provide supp-”

“I heard you,” Lexa says with a frown, turning her attention back to the wardrobe as she hangs up one of her shirts next to the suit that she’s already put onto clothes hangers. The shirt will need ironing before she’s able to wear it, having been folded up inside her suitcase, but she’d rather hang it up with a small crease than to leave it to become a crumpled mess in the bottom of her case. “Why am I the one going in?”

“Well if two of us go in we’re more likely to get caught,” shrugs Anya, who has decided to take a less urgent approach to unpacking her own suitcase - meaning that she dumped her case in the adjacent room before following Lexa into this one and taking up residence on Lexa’s bed.

“So I’m risking my life by breaking into the White House while you sit right outside and provide ‘moral support’?” asks Lexa, arching an eyebrow in Anya’s direction and using two fingers on each hand to make air quotes as she says the last two words.

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” says Anya, rolling her eyes in response. “At worst you’ll get imprisoned and tried for treason. Wait, does D.C. still have the death penalty?”

Anya takes a moment to search up the answer on her phone, a moment in which Lexa actually panics that failing this mission could cost her her life in the most undignified way imaginable.

“Nope, you’re good,” Anya eventually tells her. “Just imprisonment.” She glances up at Lexa, then asks, “But you’re not planning to get caught, are you?”

There’s a hint of a challenge in her voice, like she’s taunting Lexa, and it wouldn’t be quite so bad if it hadn’t been only a couple of days since Anya beat Lexa in a training exercise that involved breaking into a building and remaining undetected - the _exact_ thing that Anya is asking her to do again now, only for real this time.

“Nope,” answers Lexa, trying to come across as cool and unaffected. “Just another day at work.”

“You sure you can handle breaking into the White House?” smirks Anya.

“Of course I can,” answers Lexa, pretending that the very thought of what she has to do doesn’t set her heart racing with trepidation. “I’m Kingsman’s best agent for a reason.”

“Oh, that’s _cute_ ,” grins Anya. “You’re not Kingsman’s best agent but it’s adorable you think that.”

“Do _you_ want to break into the White House?” Lexa challenges Anya.

Anya’s eyebrows furrow into a little frown, before she shakes her head and replies, “I think I’m okay.”

Lexa finishes hanging up the last of her shirts, then takes the much smaller pile of neatly folded casualwear and splits it between two drawers in the dresser opposite the bed. When all of her clothes have been put away, she closes the lid of her now empty suitcase and then takes a seat on the very end of her bed.

“So, the plan,” she says again.

Anya leans down off the side of Lexa’s bed and reaches for her carry-on bag from their flight, pulling out her laptop. She opens up the lid and taps away at the keyboard, and then turns it around to show Lexa the annotated floor plan of the White House on the screen.

“You want to make it to here,” says Anya, pointing at one of the rooms. “That’s the main security office. I don’t think it’s always manned but if there’s somebody in there I’m sure you can come up with a distraction. You know, as _Kingsman’s best agent_.”

Anya’s dark eyes flick up to look at Lexa’s face, with the hint of a mocking smile gracing the curve of her lips.

“So I’m bugging their security office?” Lexa asks for clarification, ignoring the bait that Anya is giving her. “Do you want me to hack their systems too?”

“Just don’t risk getting caught,” Anya tells her, the amusement dropping off her face and replaced by a serious frown. “We can always hack into their security externally. It’s a little less subtle, but…”

“Less subtle than breaking into the White House?” interrupts Lexa, both eyebrows raised in incredulity.

“Okay, point taken,” agrees Anya with a tiny shrug. “Just plant a couple of bugs and get the hell out of there.”

They might tease each other and joke around about which of them is the better agent, a silly sibling-like rivalry that brings out the competitive edge in them both, but at the end of the day they’re always going to be on the same side. Anya might take an inordinate amount of pleasure in beating Lexa in training exercises, but when it comes down to missions in the field, Lexa knows that Anya doesn’t want her to be caught any more than Lexa does.

“How am I going to get in?” asks Lexa, because they can discuss the fine details of what she needs to do once inside for hours but it will mean nothing if she can’t actually make it inside the White House in the first place. “Security has to be tight. Like, snipers on the roof, patrols in the garden tight.”

“I … I don’t know,” admits Anya, appearing unsure for the first time since they started planning the heist. “I hadn’t thought about that yet.”

Lexa gets up off the bed and walks over to the recently organised wardrobe. She slides open the door and rummages around inside, looking through the clothes that she’s brought with her to the States, and slowly but surely a plan starts to form in her mind.

“I have an idea,” Lexa says to Anya, even as the cogs continue to turn inside her brain. “It’s crazy, but it might just work.”

“Crazy but it might just work?” repeats Anya. A slow smile passes across her lips and she says, “Damn, I love this job.”

* * *

“Can you hear me?” asks Anya.

Lexa reaches up to the small earpiece and adjusts its position in her ear so that it’s more comfortable, before she answers, “Loud and clear.”

As she walks along the sidewalk outside the tall fence that surrounds the White House, Lexa tries to act like she belongs - her disguise won’t work if her shifty behaviour gives her away and makes it obvious that she’s an intruder.

“I’m having second thoughts,” she murmurs aloud for Anya’s benefit. “This is never going to work.”

“Not with that attitude,” Anya chides her, the voice in her ear sounding a lot like a tiny conscience in her brain rather than that of a remote colleague. “Remember, the hardest part will be getting over the fence. Once you’re inside the grounds, just act like you belong.”

Lexa pulls her jacket a little tighter around her, attempting to ward off the cool night air, though she isn’t entirely certain that the chill that has every hair on her body standing to attention isn’t a result of nerves and not the cold March night.

Exactly where Anya managed to acquire a black windbreaker emblazoned with the words _Secret Service_ , Lexa isn’t entirely sure she wants to know. But whether the jacket is genuine or just a good replica, it does the job of letting her blend in. Paired with Lexa’s own black slacks, a white shirt, and a plain black tie, Lexa looks like she could be one of the many guards that stand on watch outside the White House. Though her costume probably won’t stand up to close scrutiny, at a glance she looks like a member of the Secret Service and that’s what matters.

Lexa just has to hope that the disguise is good enough to get her inside the White House.

Lexa has only ever seen the building in pictures before but now that she’s close enough to see it in person, it’s a lot more overbearing than she might have expected - or perhaps that’s just the knowledge of what she’s about to do that makes the White House seem like an impenetrable fortress.

Lexa lurks just outside the railing that protects the grounds from the public area beyond. Her disguise won’t hold up if anybody inside sees her vault the fence and she has to wait for the right moment. She spent part of her afternoon memorising patrol routes and they are burned into the front of her mind, and with the lenses of her glasses currently working as infrared cameras, she can see the outlines of two snipers on the roof in the distance, as well as two pairs of patrolling guards in the grounds.

“It’s your call, Lexa,” Anya’s voice comes through the earpiece. “I can tell you when to go but only you can see if it’s actually safe.”

Lexa remains silent, watching as the sniper nearest to her turns his back to look the other way. This could be her chance, and she feels her heart beat ever more rapidly in her chest as she waits for the patrols to move far enough away from her position to allow her time for a clean jump over the fence. With each second that passes, with each erratic thump of Lexa’s heart against her ribcage, the window of opportunity gets smaller and Lexa knows that the sniper could turn back this way at any moment and spot her vaulting the fence.

“I’m doing it,” Lexa says to warn Anya of her actions, doing a quick double-check of her surroundings on this side of the fence before she reaches up and wraps her fingers around the cold metal railings.

Hoisting herself up is easy, a brief strain on her biceps as she pulls her weight up and clambers onto the top of the fence, avoiding the spikes spaced out at regular intervals. Lexa glances up once more at the roof before she jumps, checking the sniper’s position, then drops down onto the soft grass with a gentle thud.

“I’m over,” says Lexa.

“Good girl,” comes Anya’s response. “Now you just need to act like you’re supposed to be there.”

Lexa straightens up, brushing down her clothes so that her trousers hang smoothly, then adjusts the knot of her tie so that it sits perfectly at her collar. Even in an extremely pressurised situation, she’s still a stickler for looking the part. In fact, the very act of straightening out her clothing soothes Lexa, and she feels slightly less like she’s about to have a panic attack less than a hundred feet from where the President of the United States sleeps soundly in her bed.

Lexa tries to follow Anya’s instructions and strolls through the garden like she’s patrolling it. The sniper on the roof looks back in Lexa’s direction and she turns her head away from him, an extra precaution in case he looks closely and realises that he doesn’t recognise her.

“There are guards outside the front door,” Lexa tells Anya. “I expect it’ll be the same around the back.”

“And the ground floor windows?” comes Anya’s response.

Lexa risks the sniper seeing her face by turning back to the house, scanning the windows along the wall of the house facing her.

“I can’t see any that are open.”

“You need to find a way inside, Lexa,” Anya tells her, a sense of urgency to her voice. “You’ve already made it this far.”

Lexa squints at the two guards standing at the front doors, then reaches a hand into the zipped pocket in the lining, fingers closing around a slender object. She takes it out of the pocket and slides it up her sleeve, a plan formulating in her mind. A plan so crazy that it will either work spectacularly or get her caught.

“I have an idea,” Lexa tells Anya, as she starts striding purposefully towards the front door.

Her heart is racing, but Lexa ignores it and remains focused, knowing that her plan is so bold that it will only work if she oozes confidence. Even an inkling of nerves could betray her and Lexa is nothing if not determined to tackle every mission to her very best.

Predictably, the guards on the door notice Lexa as she approaches, and Lexa makes to walk straight past them, like she has the authority to enter through the front door of the White House without being questioned.

Of course, it doesn’t quite work that simply, but Lexa thinks that her confidence has given her the upper hand as the two guards stop her outside the front door.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” answers Lexa.

Lexa puts on an American accent and limits her answer to one word so as to not give herself away, but the result comes across like her answer should be obvious, which perhaps works even better because Lexa can see the doubt in the guard’s eyes as he considers her answer.

“You’re on duty,” he reminds her.

Well at least Lexa knows that her costume passes off as authentic.

“Sorry, dude,” says Lexa. “When a girl needs to go, you don’t ask questions.”

And then, in a move that she tries to pass off as an accident but is actually _very_ deliberate, Lexa lets the tampon she removed from the pocket of her jacket earlier drop from her sleeve and onto the floor.

“Shit,” mumbles Lexa, bending down quickly to pick up the tampon, pretending that she doesn’t want either of the guards to see it but knowing full well that they both know exactly what has just fallen from her sleeve.

And, just as Lexa expected, when she stands up straight and looks at them with a pleading expression, they’ve both turned beet red and can barely make eye contact with her.

“Oh,” says the one on the left. “My bad. Of course.”

They step aside to let her through, too flustered to consider doing otherwise, and Lexa nods a thanks that masks the exhilaration that courses through her veins as she walks through the front door and enters the White House.

“Did you just walk through the front door?” asks Anya, her voice full of a mixture of awe and incredulity.

“Men are weak,” answers Lexa, rolling her eyes despite the fact that Anya can’t see her, though she’s pretty sure that the sentiment gets across through her words. “One flash of a tampon and they can’t even look you in the eye.”

“I never would have thought of that,” says Anya, and the hint of pride that Lexa hears in Anya’s voice makes Lexa’s chest swell with delight.

“Kingsman’s best agent,” she quips, ignoring the snort that Anya gives her in response.

“You can brag all you like, but only after you’ve planted those bugs,” Anya reminds her.

Lexa tucks the tampon back into the pocket of her jacket, leaving it there for easy access in case she needs to deceive more security guards.

“Right,” says Lexa. “Security office. I want to go upstairs, don’t I?”

“Yes,” answers Anya. “But I wouldn’t suggest taking the main stairs. There’s a smaller staircase off to the side that you can use. You’re less likely to meet somebody.”

Lexa tries to recall the floor plan that she studied in the hotel room earlier while Anya was sourcing the jacket for Lexa’s disguise, closing her eyes for a few seconds. The image swims to the front of her mind like it’s been branded there with a hot iron, and Lexa’s eyes snap open again. She knows where she has to go.

Once up the stairs, Lexa knows that the danger may only just be beginning. It’s a straightforward plan on paper - plant a couple of bugs in the main security office so that Kingsman will know as much as the Secret Service do about any breaches past or future, and maybe even try to hack into the security itself, remotely cloning the entire system onto Anya’s laptop so that they can comb through it later - but the risk of getting caught is probably at its highest. The office is likely to be manned, and Lexa doesn’t know if her disguise will be good enough to waltz straight in like she did with the guards at the front door.

“Excuse me?”

Lexa is so caught up in her own mind as she silently stalks down the upper hallway of the White House, the cogs inside her brain whirring and formulating an infinite number of possible plans depending on the situation, that when a voice speaks up behind her, she startles and almost trips over her own feet.

This is it, she thinks to herself. This is the moment that she gets caught.

Lexa tries to keep her cool, reminding herself that she’s dressed the part and that she might still be able to bluff her way through another encounter. But when Lexa turns on the spot to face the other person, every inch of her training flies straight from the bank of resourcefulness in her mind when she sees the owner of the voice.

Wearing a navy dressing gown over plaid pyjama pants, the girl’s blonde hair is tousled and sticks out at weird angles like she’s just woken up, but she’s still _extraordinarily_ beautiful. She pads barefoot towards Lexa and her face comes into the light, questioning blue eyes watching Lexa from beneath a slightly furrowed brow.

Lexa recognises her immediately, but even if she didn’t, the facial recognition software in the lenses of her glasses does a quick scan and a name pops up for Lexa to read.

_Clarke Griffin. First daughter of the United States._

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I don't know if I'll be able to post this weekend. Back to the usual Sunday schedule next week!
> 
> Enjoy!

It takes Lexa a few seconds to register that Clarke Griffin is talking to her, though she has no idea what has just been said.

“Pardon?”

Clarke smiles as she takes a couple of steps closer, then repeats, “I asked if you could point me towards the bathroom.”

Lexa exhales in relief. In her surprise at seeing Clarke, she had forgotten that she is dressed as a Secret Service agent, and when she processes Clarke’s question, Lexa realises that although Clarke has caught her sneaking through the hallways of the White House in the dead of night, Clarke doesn’t yet know it. Lexa’s disguise has passed yet another test, though her nerves remain sky-high as Clarke watches and waits for an answer to her question.

Rather unhelpfully, Anya, who is getting a live feed onto a laptop of everything that Lexa can see through her special glasses, chooses that moment to speak up.

“Oh, she’s pretty, isn’t she?” teases Anya, and Lexa _hates_ how well Anya knows her, even when they aren’t physically together. “Don’t let yourself get distracted, Lancelot.”

“Shut up,” Lexa growls through clenched teeth.

Only too late, Lexa remembers that she isn’t alone, and that she’s just spoken aloud in a hallway with only one other person. A person who is going to think that Lexa is talking to her.

“Sorry, what?” frowns Clarke.

“Oh! Not you! Just … a voice in my head.” Lexa realises that her attempt at backtracking is only making her seem like more of a crazy person, and she desperately tries to claw back some of her dignity as she adds, “Telling me to get back to work, when clearly I should be helping you.”

If she wasn’t in the middle of a high stakes mission and relying on Anya’s intel for support, Lexa would pluck the earpiece out of her ear, drop it onto the carpeted floor, and grind it under the heel of her shoe. She’s pretty sure that Clarke must think she’s clinically insane, and the laughter that she can hear through the earpiece as Anya takes joy in Lexa’s discomfort is only making Lexa feel more on edge.

To Lexa’s relief, Clarke doesn’t seem to take notice of the actual words, instead the way that they are spoken.

“Wait, you’re British?” she asks confusedly.

The question takes Lexa by surprise, and her brain momentarily forgets how to work.

“Am I? I mean,” Lexa sighs, about ready to throw herself out of one of the windows that lines the hallway, prepared to face the wrath of the guards and the snipers on the roof outside if it means escaping her current situation, then takes a deep breath to compose herself before she continues, “I am. Yes. British. Me.”

In her ear, Anya’s laughter intensifies and turns into what Lexa can only describe as a cackle.

“I’m sorry,” apologises Lexa, sure that her cheeks must be fiery red. “I’m making a terrible first impression.”

Clarke regards her with curiosity, her eyes scanning the entire length of Lexa’s body, from Lexa’s head right down her Secret Service disguise to her feet.

“Not entirely.”

Anya falls oddly silent for a few seconds, then exhales softly, “What the _fuck_?”

The surprise is mirrored in Lexa. Though she knows she’s not unattractive and she’s certainly no stranger to a pretty girl, it normally takes a little more effort than staring stupidly and tripping over her own words to charm somebody. Perhaps Clarke is still half-asleep, and this entire interaction is one that she won’t be able to recall in the morning.

Her confidence boosted slightly, and remembering that she still has a mission to carry out that relies on her not being outed as an intruder by anybody that she comes across, Lexa keeps up the guise of being a White House security guard as she takes a few steps forward to Clarke and offers out her hand.

“Lexa,” she introduces herself. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke takes Lexa’s hand tentatively, then rolls her eyes as she says, “Ugh, call me Clarke, _please_. ‘Miss Griffin’ make me sound way more important than I actually am.”

“Clarke,” Lexa nods. “Of course.”

Anya’s voice in her ear is a most unwelcome introduction, as she says, “You’re on a mission, Lexa. Don’t let the pretty girl make you forget that.”

Lexa wishes once again that she could get rid of the earpiece and remove Anya from the situation entirely, though she reluctantly has to admit that her fellow agent has a very good point. If she continues like this, they’re never going to get to the bottom of the security breaches at the White House and the President’s life could be in danger, and the lives of those around her, including the girl standing right in front Lexa.

Thankfully, Clarke also has a more pressing thing on her mind.

“Anyway, bathroom?” she asks Lexa, a pleading look in her eyes.

“Isn’t this your house?” Lexa asks in amusement.

“Not really,” answers Clarke, with a small shrug. “I’ve been away at college. Tonight is actually my first night here. And I could have sworn it was a left out of my room to the bathroom but apparently not.”

“Bathroom,” Lexa says aloud as she desperately tries to recall where the bathroom is, though her study of the White House’s floor plan earlier on in the day focused on the location of offices and security personnel, rather than its hygiene facilities. Coming up short, she repeats, this time in a slightly urgent growl that is for Anya’s benefit, “ _Bathroom_.”

“Oh, right!” comes Anya’s voice in Lexa’s ear, and Lexa knows that Anya has got the hint and will be using the floor plan on her laptop to guide Lexa in the right direction so that she can get Clarke out of the way and complete the mission unimpeded by pretty girls and their dangerous allure. “Bathroom. Go back where you came from. Second door on the right.”

Lexa relays the instructions to Clarke, who smiles her thanks, but Clarke barely has the chance to take a single step before a third voice speaks up from the end of the hallway.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be up here!”

It’s a guard, a _real_ member of the Secret Service, slowly stalking towards them. His eyes are on Lexa, not Clarke, and she tries to keep herself calm and focuses on the fact that she doesn’t look like an intruder.

Putting on the American accent again, Lexa says, “Just showing Miss Griffin to the bathroom.”

Beside her, Clarke looks at her inquisitively and asks, “Your accent?”

Lexa can feel the mission start to crumble around her, echoed by the hitch of Anya’s breath through the earpiece. If she can just keep Clarke on her side for long enough to sweet-talk the guard out of the way, then maybe all won’t be lost.

“Just go with it,” Lexa mutters under her breath so that only Clarke can hear her. “Please?”

Clarke’s eyebrows furrow into a hardened frown as she tries to figure out what Lexa’s game is, and whether Lexa is worth protecting against the people who are paid to keep Clarke and her family safe. Clarke weighs it up for a few long seconds, during which the guard continues to move closer, before she finally seems to agree.

“It’s my fault,” Clarke turns to tell the guard. “I got lost and asked Lexa to show me the way to the bathroom.”

“Lexa?”

Only too late, Lexa realises Clarke’s slip up. Her heart stops in her chest. This is the most tense moment of Lexa’s entire life.

Hearing the entire exchange, Anya realises that the mission is plummeting south too.

“Shit!” hisses Anya. “Lancelot, get out of there. Abort mission. Abort!”

“There’s no Lexa that works here,” continues the guard.

At this stage, Lexa realises that her persona is busted. She needs to stall for long enough to get out of here, and _fast_. There’s no time to worry about the fact that she hasn’t made it to the security office yet - there’s always Anya’s backup plan of attempting to externally hack into the White House security. What Lexa needs right now is to escape from this current predicament before she finds herself unable to leave.

“I’m new,” Lexa improvises, hoping with every ounce of her being that this guy isn’t too high up in the White House security team. “Last minute replacement for that guy who got sick.”

The guard reaches for the walkie talkie attached to the front of his jacket and presses a button as he says, “I need backup on the upper floor.”

Lexa absently remembers the tampon in the pocket of her jacket and wonders dumbly if hurling it into the security guard’s face might provide a split second distraction and allow her to make an escape.

Beside her, Clarke exhales dumbfoundedly and asks, her voice laced with a mixture of confusion and awe, “Who the fuck even are you?”

Lexa has a strange feeling in her gut, one telling her that she could explain the entire situation to Clarke and still have the girl on her side, helping her to execute the perfect escape. But unfortunately there just isn’t the time. The guard has already reached for his gun and Lexa knows that more just like him will be on the way, ready to shoot at Lexa first and ask questions later if she doesn’t get out of here now.

“I’m sorry we got off to a weird start,” Lexa says to Clarke, wishing that she had gone against her better judgement and decided to bring a gun of her own, despite not particularly wanting to use it on White House staff, especially when the President herself could be around. “For the record, I think you’re really pretty.”

“Lexa, now is not the time,” comes Anya’s frantic voice in Lexa’s ear. “Get out of there!”

“What’s going on?” says another new voice, this one behind them. “Clarke?”

Lexa turns around slowly to face the newcomer, though she recognises the voice from months of political campaigning televised around the globe. Lexa’s worst fears are correct - President Abigail Griffin is walking towards Lexa, wrapped in a silky dressing gown that covers her pyjamas, and flanked by two more armed Secret Service agents.

There’s no way out now.

“Well, it’s been nice knowing you,” comes Anya’s voice through the earpiece.

In one last ditch attempt, Lexa decides that maybe sweet-talking the President will get her out of the stickiest situation of her entire career as an agent.

“Madam President,” says Lexa, inclining her head out of respect. “What an honour. Can I start by saying what a huge fan I am of-?”

Lexa doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence because she is suddenly overcome with the most crippling pain she has ever experienced in her life, perhaps even worse than the knee injury she sustained when she was eighteen. She tries to move her arms instinctively, wanting to curl up into a ball to protect herself from the mysterious source of the pain but it’s like her body won’t respond. All Lexa can do is let her body fall to the carpeted floor. Lexa doesn’t even know if she cries out in pain, or if the screaming is just happening in her head, begging for it all to be over.

Lexa doesn’t know how long the pain lasts for, but it feels like an eternity. When it’s finally over, and Lexa is nothing more than a limp body on the floor, aware of her surroundings but limbs too numb to move, she realises that the first guard to find them is standing over her with a stun gun in his hand, and that he must have shot the probes into Lexa’s back while she was facing the President.

“Clarke,” gasps out Lexa, as two other guards bundle on top of Lexa and roll her onto her front, pinning her arms together behind her back and locking a pair of handcuffs around her wrist with a metallic click.

As Lexa is hauled to her feet and the guards start to drag her away down the hallway, all she can focus on is the way that Clarke watches her go, eyes full of curiosity.

* * *

Lexa doesn’t know how long she’s been wasting away in a jail cell. There are no windows, only a heavy iron door with a slot that a tray of barely edible food gets passed through three times a day, and the flickering bulb that hangs from the ceiling hasn’t been turned off since she was thrown in here and left to wallow in her own shame however long ago it was.

Lexa would hazard a guess that it can’t have been much longer than a day, and certainly no longer than two, but with no form of entertainment, nothing but four plain walls and her own miserable thoughts, it feels like an eternity since she last saw daylight.

The cell is uninspiring. There’s a bench set into the back wall, upon which lies the world’s thinnest mattress - if it can even be called a mattress. Lexa has tried and failed to get some sleep on it, but slumber has evaded her. It’s probably not entirely the bed’s fault though. The lone bulb is yellow in colour, and it flickers in a way that became annoying after barely two minutes in this cell. The only other object in the room is a bucket, and though Lexa waited as long as possible before relieving herself into it, the urge to piss eventually became too strong and the cell hasn’t smelt quite the same since.

_God_ knows how Lexa will cope if she needs a dump before she gets moved out of this cell.

It’s not the worst cell she’s been in - that particular title goes to a cell she once found herself in Panama, though the word ‘cell’ should definitely be used lightly because it was hardly more than a filthy pit, with not even the luxury of a bucket to shit in. But at least when she was captive in Panama she had some human contact and brief moments of respite from the endless tedium, even if it was only so that her captors could beat the crap out of her in an attempt to get information from her.

Lexa would almost rather take the beatings than this, to be stuck staring at the same four walls with nothing but her own depressing thoughts for company.

There are two ways forward, as far as Lexa can decide. Either President Griffin has a sudden change of heart and orders Lexa’s immediate release from jail, or she gets transferred to a maximum security prison and eventually gets tried for breaking and entering and probably treason too. Lexa sincerely hopes it’s the former. Orange has _never_ been her colour.

That, and life imprisonment doesn’t appeal. As an active person whose job revolves around thrill and danger, even the last day and a bit of being stuck in such a confined space with nothing to satisfy her hunger for adventure has been torture. If Lexa was to go to prison, she wouldn’t just miss Anya and her dads and her dog, she would miss her lifestyle. Her _freedom_.

When Lexa plays the first of the two scenarios out in her head, President Griffin’s change of mind is usually sparked by a conversation with her daughter. Lexa keeps herself entertained by imagining that Clarke has been so charmed by the mysterious and suave British stranger in her house that she begs her mother to release Lexa without charge, before arriving at the federal jailhouse to collect Lexa so that they can ride off into the sunset together on the back of a motorcycle.

And then Lexa remembers her brief encounter with Clarke, remembers how stilted and awkward their conversations were because Lexa could hardly string two words together in her presence, and realises that her fantasies are only ever going to be just that. Fantasies.

Lexa is so mortified at the memory of talking with Clarke that she wants to bang her head against the solid stone wall of her cell. She’s never had trouble in the presence of pretty girls before, not since she was sixteen and trying to catch the attention of Costia Amari in the year below Lexa by making eye contact with her in the school lunch hall, only to end up spilling her drink over both of them when she finally plucked up the courage to say hi after four months of wistfully staring at Costia from across a crowded room. Lexa has had significantly more experience of flirting since that particular incident, and she likes to think that she’s mastered the art, but standing down the hallway from Clarke Griffin made Lexa feel like a jittering teenager again, a flirting novice, the epitome of the useless lesbian stereotype.

Well, at least Lexa never has to see Clarke again. That would probably be more embarrassing than the encounter itself. No, the only future shame Lexa is going to have to deal with is Anya’s teasing, after Anya listened to the entire thing over Lexa’s earpiece.

Providing she gets out of this cell at all. At the moment, Lexa is fairly certain that the next time she’ll see Anya will be on the other side of a prison visiting table.

Lexa hears footsteps on the other side of the door and thinks nothing of it until it is followed by the creak of the heavy bolt being drawn back across the door to Lexa’s cell. Lexa’s head snaps up as the door opens for the first time since she was locked in here after the disaster at the White House, and the very last two people Lexa expects to see wall into her cell.

“Get up, you big twerp,” says Anya, extending a hand, which Lexa takes, letting Anya help her get to her feet from where she has been sitting on the concrete floor with her back against the wall.

“Anya?”

Lexa is confused by her friend’s sudden appearance in the cell when just a minute ago Lexa was so certain of her impending incarceration in the American prison system. But Anya is here, alongside Merlin, who must have flown across to the States when news of Lexa’s gigantic fuck-up made it back to the UK.

Anya pulls Lexa in for a hug, wrapping her strong arms around Lexa and holding her tight. It’s a nice moment, but it only lasts for a couple of seconds. Anya withdraws quickly, wrinkling up her face in disgust, and she raises a hand to cover her nose and mouth.

“God, you stink!” she exclaims.

Lexa is still wearing her clothes from the other night, black slacks now crumpled and a little dusty from sitting on the floor of her cell, shirt open at the collar and unbuttoned at the cuffs so that the sleeves can be rolled up to the elbows. The jacket was taken from her when she was arrested and her tie lies discarded on the floor. Lexa knows that she smells less than fragrant, but she’s become accustomed to the smell of her own B.O. while in this cell and she imagines that it’s much worse for somebody else walking in from the fresh air outside.

“It’s okay,” replies Lexa. “I know.”

Anya takes a step back, then lowers her hand once she’s out of Lexa’s immediate vicinity. And it only takes a fraction of a second for the ribbing that Lexa expected upon a reunion with Anya.

“So, the President’s daughter?” teases Anya, raising her eyebrows knowingly as she shoots Lexa a smug grin.

Lexa can only roll her eyes and hope that the heat she can feel rising to her cheeks doesn’t turn her entire face the colour of a tomato in embarrassment.

“Save it for when I’m not in a cell,” retorts Lexa.

“Oh, you’re getting out, by the way,” Anya tells her.

“I am?” asks Lexa, exhaling in relief.

“You are,” nods Merlin, speaking up for the first time since entering the cell alongside Anya.

They’re both dressed very smartly in suits and ties, and Merlin crosses the cell to place the leather briefcase he carries onto the bed. He flips open the clasps on either side of the handle and pulls out a sheaf of paperwork, which he shows to Lexa. The sheet on top looks like the start of a very good fake copy of an MI6 agent profile that has a small photograph of Lexa’s face attached to the top with a paperclip.

“We couldn’t tell them who you are without exposing Kingsman but we’ve got a connection in MI6 who managed to acquire these,” Merlin tells her.

Lexa’s eyes flick across the sheet and settle on the name they’ve given to the fake MI6 agent with her face.

“Alicia Clark?” she frowns. “I don’t think I look like an Alicia.”

Lexa’s stomach chooses that moment to growl thunderously.

“Oh, I brought you food,” says Anya, reaching into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulling out a cellophane-wrapped sandwich.

“Oh my god, thank you!” says Lexa, forgetting her earlier irritation at Anya as she hastily peels back the wrapping and examines the sandwich filling. “Cheese and pickle?”

“The best I could do at short notice,” nods Anya.

Lexa takes a huge bite from the sandwich and lets out an ungodly groan as the flavour fills her mouth. She never thought that somebody as basic as a slice of cheese and a dollop of chutney between two pieces of slightly stale bread could taste so good, but after a day of jailhouse slop, Lexa is pretty sure that anything would taste good.

While Lexa is enjoying her sandwich, Anya reaches inside her jacket again and pulls out a small box of ibuprofen, throwing it at Lexa, who catches it against her chest with the hand not holding the sandwich.

“For your knee,” explains Anya.

“Thanks,” says Lexa, taking a seat on the edge of the bed so that she can place the sandwich on her knees, freeing up her hands. As she pops two of the painkillers through the foil that contains them, she adds, “I know you think I play up the knee thing for sympathy, but you should try sleeping on this “bed”,” Lexa makes air quotes and rolls her eyes, “with a pre-existing injury. Hurts like a bitch.”

“I never said you were faking it,” says Anya.

Lexa shrugs and then looks up at Merlin.

“So I’m getting out of here?” she asks him. “They bought the MI6 story?”

“It took a little bit of convincing but when we started bluffing about getting the Intelligence Minister on the line they seemed to decide you could be released,” answers Anya.

“It’s late in London,” says Merlin. “I expect they’ll wait until the morning to actually follow up with MI6.”

“By which time we’ll be out of the States and there will be no record of an Alicia Clark ever here,” adds Anya. She nudges Lexa, then says, “Come on, let’s get out of here. Hotel room service awaits.”

Lexa’s stomach gives another traitorous growl, despite the sandwich that she’s nearly finished eating, and she gets to her feet again, glad to be finally leaving this dismal cell. She leaves first, closely followed by Merlin and Anya.

The air feels fresher outside the cell, and Lexa takes a deep breath so that it fills her lungs. Maybe it’s just her imagination, or perhaps freedom actually has a taste, and Lexa feels it seep into every cell in her body with each breath that she takes.

The guards eye them suspiciously as they pass, and Lexa wonders if it’s because they’re sceptical about the MI6 ruse, though Lexa supposes that the curious looks they receive as they walk out without reprimand might be because they believe the story and are intrigued by the three secret agents. If the guards are manning a reception desk at a low security jailhouse, Lexa decides that they can’t be very high-up government officials, and seeing three supposed members of a foreign intelligence organisation is probably the most interesting thing to happen to them while at work all year.

They make it outside and Lexa stops in her tracks, closing her eyes and basking in the afternoon sun that hits her skin. Though she knows it’s only been a day and a half, Lexa feels like it’s been weeks, _months_ even, since she last saw daylight, and she never wants to take it for granted again.

“Come on,” says Anya, tapping Lexa’s arm and drawing her out of her little reverie, gesturing to the taxi waiting for them at the side of the road, having been flagged down by Merlin.

Lexa slides into the backseat of the cab next to Anya, clicking her seatbelt into place as Merlin reels off the address of a hotel and the cab drivers pulls away from the side of the road.

“So are we going to talk about how you fluffed a mission because of a girl?” asks Anya, tilting her head to look at Lexa and arching an eyebrow.

Lexa looks away in shame, glancing out of the window of the cab and wondering whether the pain and inevitable hospital visit that would occur if she opened the car door and threw herself out into another lane of moving traffic would be worth it if it meant getting away from Anya’s insistent teasing. It’s only when Lexa remembers that healthcare isn’t free in this country, that she decides that facing up to Anya might be the better option.

“I didn’t…” Lexa starts, letting out a sigh. “I was talking to her for literally _five_ seconds before the guy showed up. He would have found me regardless.”

“ _Talking_?” snorts Anya. “Oh no, you don’t get to call that talking. Bumbling. Flustering. Making a tit of yourself. But not talking.”

Lexa groans and leans her head against the window, staring out at the traffic that passes in the other direction.

“Wait ‘til I tell Aden what a disaster you were.”

Lexa turns back to look at Anya and shakes her head disapprovingly:

“Okay, first of all,” she starts, folding her arms across her chest in indignation, “the fact that you’re good friends with my brother is a little weird because you’re twice his age. Secondly, there are certain things that my little brother doesn’t need to know about - my personal life is one of them. Thirdly …”

“Fine, maybe I won’t tell him,” concedes Anya, pouring like a small child who has had their favourite toy taken away as punishment. “If only you were as good with women as you are at ruining my fun.”

“Maybe if you had a personal life of your own you wouldn’t need to cohort with my brother to make fun of mine,” retorts Lexa.

“Ouch.” Anya shrugs and then adds, “Though you have a point. Which is why we should use our last night in the States to go out and have some fun? Make some new stories?”

Merlin, who sits in the front seat next to the cab driver and has left them to their conversation until now, turns around and says, “Actually, you should probably stay in your hotel rooms tonight. I think you should keep a low profile, especially you Lancelot.”

Anya waits until Merlin is facing the front again, then sticks out her tongue and rolls her eyes to show her distaste for the idea of staying in their rooms.

Lexa actually thinks the idea sounds pretty good. With a transatlantic flight in the morning and having spent the last day and a half in a cell unable to properly sleep, Lexa wants nothing more than to collapse into a bed and spend the next twelve hours in a deep slumber. What she doesn’t want, is to let herself get dragged into whatever plan Anya’s mind is concocting that will inevitably involve drinking too much and staying out too late.

Already, Lexa’s eyes are beginning to droop. The movement of the car, the low rumble of the engine, and the soft fabric of the seats in comparison to the hardness of every surface in the cell, means that sleep threatens to wrap her in its embrace and Lexa tries to fight it for as long as possible.

She must drift off because it feels like they pull up at the hotel barely two seconds later and Anya is nudging her awake. Lexa blinks her eyes open and follows Anya out of the cab, leaving Merlin to settle the fare. She’s still half asleep as they take the lift up to their rooms, and hardly registers saying goodbye to Merlin as he gives them one final reminder to stay in their rooms.

Anya follows Lexa into her room, and she has barely closed the door behind them when she hisses, “Like hell we’re staying in our rooms. We’ve got one night left in this country and I’m going to make the most of it.”

Across the room, Lexa’s bed looks so inviting, with its quilted covers and four plush pillows against the headboard, and anything that is going to keep her from that bed seems like a terrible idea.

“Anya,” protests Lexa, “I think we should listen to Merlin and…”

Anya shakes her head, marching over to the wardrobe and sliding open the door. She starts rummaging around inside, pulling out items of Lexa’s clothing and holding them up against each other, before roughly shoving them back onto the railing and doing the same again with another garment. Lexa is far too tired to protest the treatment that Anya is giving her clothes.

“You need a shower, then change into this,” says Anya, taking out a pair of dark jeans and a top and thrusting the hangers at Lexa. “We’re going out.”

Though she feels too tired to go out, Lexa also doesn’t have the energy to argue.

“You’re not going to change your mind, are you?” she sighs in resignation.

“What happens in D.C. stays in D.C.,” grins Anya.

“It’s funny you should say that,” says Lexa, raising an eyebrow, “because I remember you saying something very similar when we were in Prague, only you ended up dating a Czech stripper for the next four months.”

“You say that like it was a bad thing,” shrugs Anya, with a little smile. “If you’re trying to persuade me to have a quiet night in, you’re doing a terrible job.”

It only takes a moment to realise that Anya will be much easier to appease if Lexa agrees to go out. Besides, Lexa only needs to stay for one drink. By that time, Anya will have probably chatted somebody up and Lexa can return to her hotel room for a long sleep before the flight in the morning.

“Fine. Let’s go out.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“A lesbian bar?” Lexa asks incredulously. “You brought me to a lesbian bar?”

As Lexa peers around the bar, with its grungy lighting and soft background music, her immediate thought is that she should have picked a gayer outfit. A lot of the women in the room are dressed in flannels or shirts or v-neck tees, and Lexa feels a mournful pang for the shirts back in her hotel room. The outfit she’s wearing is nice - a sheer, sleeveless top paired with dark skinny jeans - and her winged eyeliner game is on point, but she dressed for a generic night out. Had she known that Anya had a lesbian bar in mind, Lexa would definitely have dressed a little differently, and she is left feeling like she doesn’t quite look gay enough to have earned herself entry to this bar.

Which is ridiculous, Lexa is _fully_ aware. She knows that there’s no such thing as “looking gay”, and her wardrobe back in England holds everything from dresses to tuxedos, from sweatpants to a three-piece tweed suit, but Lexa finds that the way she dresses affects her mindset. When she wears a crisp shirt and a tailored suit, the perfect knot of a tie sitting neatly at her collar, she’s Agent Lancelot, ready to think quickly on her feet to save the world; when she wears jeans and a casual tee, she’s just regular Lexa doing her supermarket shopping or reading a book or hanging out with her thirteen year-old brother on the weekends, a normal twenty-two year old living a normal life. It’s only a little thing, but it works mentally, it helps distinguish the different parts of Lexa’s life.

And it seeps into other things too, enough that Lexa feels out of place right now, like she’s dressed up for the wrong night out.

It’s a good job that she has no intention of pulling tonight. Lexa feels a little bit too off-balance to even consider bringing out her charm and using it on any of the girls in this bar tonight.

Noting Lexa’s surprise, Anya asks, “Would you rather I took you someplace where we’ll get hit on by gross college boys all night?”

Lexa thinks back to her previous experiences of entitled straight men and grimaces when she imagines what they might be like on this side of the Atlantic, where infant boys are weaned off their mothers’ breast milk onto a diet of misogyny and toxic masculinity before they can even say their own names, to an even greater extent than Lexa is used to back at home.

Conceding that perhaps Anya’s idea to come to this particular bar may not have been a terrible one after all, Lexa says, “No.”

“Good,” grins Anya. She wraps a playful arm around Lexa’s shoulders, forcing Lexa’s body to lean into her side as they walk up to the bar, then asks cheekily, “Buy me a drink?”

“Really?”

“Yes, because I’m a better agent than you.”

Lexa tries to find within her the strength to dispute Anya’s point, but following her abysmal performance in the White House two nights ago, she really doesn’t think that she can put together much of an argument.

“For once, I don’t think I can disagree,” admits Lexa, too tired to be bothered by any gloating that Anya might do.

They reach the bar and Lexa orders drinks for both of them, while Anya starts scanning the room. Lexa knows exactly what Anya is doing, searching for a potential bedfellow for the night, but she refuses to join in. Lexa doesn’t want to become a cliche, a tourist in a strange city looking for a one night stand to quell a hunger for adrenaline.

“Okay, the hottest girl in the room is definitely the one over there,” says Anya, nodding to the corner of the bar furthest from the door. “Dibs.”

“You’re welcome to her,” shrugs Lexa, quickly thanking the bartender, before picking up both glasses and passing Anya’s drink over to her. “I’ve got no interest in having a meaningless one night stand just because we leave the country in the morning.”

Beside her, Anya has fallen oddly silent, still staring out in the direction of the girl she’s eyeing up. Lexa rolls her eyes, slightly frustrated by the fact that Anya has dragged her out of the hotel, only to take interest in somebody else straight away, and she finds herself hoping that Anya can get a move on so that Lexa can retire to her hotel room once more, earlier than planned.

Anya laughs breathily, almost in disbelief, then says, “Lex, you might want to revisit that plan. Look who is sitting next to Hottie.”

Lexa follows Anya’s gaze, quickly locating the girl that her best friend has got her eye on. She’s easy to spot, exactly Anya’s type - dark hair and dangerous eyes and a trace of a smirk tugging at her lips. She sits at a table with three others, and though two have their backs to Lexa, there is no mistaking the third. Lexa doesn’t think she could forget that face in a million lifetimes.

Clarke Griffin is here.

The very same Clarke Griffin that Lexa made an idiot of herself in front of two nights ago.

The very same Clarke Griffin who watched her get tasered and dragged out of the White House in handcuffs by several members of the Secret Service.

The very same Clarke Griffin that is so incredibly beautiful that Lexa literally forgot how to function as a human being in her presence the last time they were in the same room.

“What the fuck?” Lexa exhales in disbelief.

“I knew that going out tonight would be a good idea,” grins Anya.

“Did you know she was going to be here?” asks Lexa, because it’s not completely out of the realm of the possibility that Anya spent the time Lexa was in a cell to track Clarke’s movements specifically so that Lexa is forced to confront the girl she made such a terrible first impression on.

“Of course not,” says Anya, shaking her head. “I think the universe is sticking its middle finger up at you, and I’m one hundred percent here for it.”

Lexa takes a long sip from her drink, then lets out a groan as she says, “I can’t believe she’s here. In a _lesbian_ bar!”

“Well, she is bi,” says Anya.

Lexa hates how fast her head snaps up at this revelation, hates how it betrays her thoughts and hates the knowing smile that Anya gives her in response.

“How do you know that?” asks Lexa, trying to keep her voice as casual as possible even though her mind is running a marathon as she thinks of all the possibilities now that Clarke is here and apparently interested in women.

“Because she came out in a magazine interview last year during Abby Griffin’s campaign,” explains Anya. “I’m pretty sure I sent you a link to the article when it was published.”

“You know I don’t pay attention to celebrity gossip,” shrugs Lexa.

“So are you going to say hi to her?” asks Anya

“How can I?” groans Lexa. She uses the fingers on the hand not holding her drink to count as she continues, “One, she thinks I’m in jail, and two, she thinks I’m a fucking moron!”

“Then she already has low expectations and it can only go up?” suggests Anya. “I’m going over there with or without you, are you coming?” Anya pauses for Lexa’s response, and when she doesn’t get one, continues persuasively, “I’ll put in a good word for you. The very best for my very best friend.”

“Fuck it,” concedes Lexa, downing the rest of her drink for courage and waving at the bartender to get her another. Turning back to Anya, Lexa says, “Though I won’t let you forget you said that. Last week you said I was - and I quote - _tolerable_.”

“Tolerable as a best friend,” says Anya, with a grin. “Because nobody else is good enough.”

With a fresh drink in her hand, Lexa follows Anya across the room to the table where Clarke and her three friends sit. Lexa tries not to let herself panic too much, deciding that throwing herself into the situation without thought is probably the best option. That particular tactic usually works pretty well in the field - jumping out of a plane, for example, is something that Lexa finds much easier to do if she doesn’t give herself the time to remember that a fault with the parachute could result in her crumpled body hitting the earth from ten thousand feet - and Lexa hopes that it works with pretty girls too. Specifically, that it will work with Clarke.

“Do you ladies mind if we join you?” asks Anya, turning her charm dual up to the maximum as soon as they reach the table.

All four pairs of eyes snap up, focused on Anya at first, but they drift to Lexa soon after. Lexa tries to look anywhere but at Clarke, feeling her eyes watch her with burning intensity long after the other three return their attention to Anya. Instead, Lexa looks at the girl closest to them, the one that Anya has got her eye on, who pushes out the empty chair closest to her and gestures for Anya to sit in it.

“Be my guest,” says the girl, a small smile on her face as she appraises Anya with curiosity. “Is that a British accent I hear?”

“It is,” nods Anya, taking her seat, “and before you ask, yes I _have_ met the Queen.”

Anya quickly launches into a true anecdote that seems to capture the girl’s attention, carefully omitting the part where she foiled an attempt on Prince William’s life.

While Anya makes herself at home immediately, Lexa is left standing beside the table like she’s a little bit in the way. She dares to spare a glance in Clarke’s direction, only to find steely blue eyes staring at her with the kind of intensity that could bore a hole straight through Lexa’s skull. Clarke’s expression contains mixed recognition and confusion, and Lexa feels herself getting very self-conscious the longer she stands there.

Luck, as ever, is working against Lexa, and the only spare seat at the table is the one to Clarke’s immediate right. The only thing working in Lexa’s favour is that the empty seat is as far away from Anya as possible, as she is grateful that Anya is probably going to miss a lot of Lexa’s future embarrassment in front of Clarke.

Clarke, understandably, has some questions.

“Aren’t you…?”

“Later?” Lexa asks, her tone pleading, not wanting to get into the gritty details so soon, especially while the two friends of Clarke that aren’t being charmed by Anya are watching Lexa with intrigue. “I promise I’ll explain.”

Clarke hesitates for a long moment, then nods.

“Okay,” she says, conceding even though there’s a sharp look in her eye that promises Lexa she won’t forget that she wants an explanation. “Well, this is Monroe and their girlfriend Harper. Talking to your friend is Raven. And, well, you know who I am.”

Lexa greets Clarke’s friends with a smile and polite nods of her head.

“I’m Lexa. It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“So what brings you to America?” asks the girl that Clarke introduced as Harper.

“Just work,” answers Lexa, keeping her answer as vague as possible, though she can feel Clarke’s watchful eyes burning into the side of her head once more. “We fly back in the morning so Anya thought it would be a good idea to enjoy our final night in D.C.”

“Oh, what do you do?” asks Harper.

Lexa feels Clarke fall still beside her, as if waiting to hear how Lexa will choose to answer that question, and Lexa wonders how much of her altered truth Clarke has managed to find out.

“Nothing exciting,” Lexa answers vaguely as possible. “I don’t want to bore you with the details. Tell me, how do you all know each other?”

Lexa’s deflection works, or perhaps Clarke picks up on the fact that Lexa is deliberately avoiding talking about her work and jumps in to save her, because Clarke is quick to offer up an answer.

“The three of us went to high school together and Raven is a college friend of mine,” she tells Lexa. “Harper and Monroe live here in D.C. and Raven is staying with me for a week or so during spring break. We thought it would be nice to go out and here we don’t have to deal with gross men hitting on us.”

Lexa nods understandingly, and says, “That was Anya’s reason for choosing here too.”

Clarke pauses for a few seconds, watchful eyes not leaving Lexa’s face once, before she replies in a voice that is a little lower than before, “Well I’m glad that she did.”

It’s almost intangible, but Lexa feels a spark crackle between them, and it causes the breath to hitch in her throat.

Lexa’s mouth is dry as she replies, “So am I.”

Lexa thinks that she can see the corner of Clarke’s mouth twitch as if going to smile, but then it’s gone, perhaps just a product of Lexa’s wishful imagination.

Though there is a seed of doubt in Lexa’s mind, wondering whether the chemistry between them is something she’s made up in her mind, it must be evident enough for the others around the table to notice it, because Monroe asks, “You and Anya aren’t dating then?”

Beside Lexa, Clarke glances across to where Raven is laughing at something that Anya has said, one of her hands resting on Anya’s forearm, then looks back at Monroe as she answers for Lexa, “I doubt Anya would be hitting on Raven quite so blatantly if she was dating Lexa. Unless that’s what you’re into?”

Clarke arches a questioning eyebrow in Lexa’s direction.

Lexa shakes her head, because although there was a girl in Bali that proposed a threesome with them both when they visited, Anya is too close of a friend for Lexa to even consider seeing her in that kind of way. Besides, while the jury is still out on Anya, Lexa is definitely the monogamous type.

“Nope, definitely not dating,” says Lexa, wincing at the thought. “Anya is more of an annoying older sister.

“Anybody else special in your life?”

Clarke reaches for her drink as she asks the question, and Lexa has to fight back a smile, experienced enough at reading other people’s body language to know that Clarke is trying to pass her question off as casual curiosity, which probably means that she’s actually got a personal interest in Lexa’s answer. Which probably means that…

Lexa shakes herself out of her thoughts, trying not to get ahead of herself. If there’s anybody with a personal interest in the other, it’s definitely Lexa, and she tries not to let her attraction for Clarke project unrealistic scenarios onto her imagination.

“No,” answers Lexa, now doing her own best attempt at trying to remain casually unaffected by the conversation. “What about yourself?”

“Nobody,” answers Clarke. “Still waiting for the right person to come along.”

Lexa nods and tries to act unaffected by this new piece of information, though she files it away in her mind as she tries not to get too caught up in hope that maybe the right person is her. Instead, Lexa turns her attention to Harper and Monroe.

“So how long have you two been dating?”

* * *

Harper and Monroe bid them farewell after they finish their drinks, claiming that they have an early start to visit Harper’s parents the next morning. Raven and Anya are absorbed in a conversation of their own at the other end of the table, and they soon disappear to the bar for another drink, where they stay, finally leaving Lexa alone with Clarke.

With some newfound privacy, Clarke wastes no time in questioning Lexa about the other night.

“So I heard a rumour that you’re MI6,” she says, raising an eyebrow as she regards Lexa with curiosity.

Lexa hesitates before she answers, wondering whether she should go along with the lie or construct an entirely new one for Clarke’s benefit. But there are still twelve hours until her flight out of the country, twelve hours in which Clarke could easily contact somebody very important and let them know that the intruder from the other night is not who she claims to be. It’s easier to go along with a lie that has a few forged documents to support it.

“Well, yes,” nods Lexa.

“Are you going to tell me what you were doing inside the White House?” Clarke asks.

Her eyes are full of intrigue, her _really gorgeous_ eyes, and Lexa has to remind herself that confessing all her secrets to a new acquaintance who happens to be the daughter of a powerful world leader would probably not be her cleverest idea.

Instead, Lexa leans back in her seat, looks Clarke in the eyes and then, using a line that Lexa is pretty certain she picked up from a movie, deadpans, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Clarke’s reaction is worth it. Her face cracks open into a smile and a bubble of laughter leaves her throat, and though Lexa’s words were intended to be aloof and mysterious in a way that she hoped might charm Clarke, Lexa is the one that is left feeling disarmed.

“I bet you use that line on all the girls,” says Clarke.

“Only the pretty ones,” Lexa quips back.

“And does it work?”

Lexa feels her entire body relaxing because this, _this_ is how you flirt with pretty girls, not whatever bumbling mess she made of herself the other day. She reaches for her a drink, taking a sip and savouring the moment as Clarke watches her and waits for Lexa’s answer, then glances up at Clarke with a trace of a smile on her lips.

“I don’t know, _does_ it?”

Why, oh _why_ can’t Anya be here now to witness her charm Clarke with carefully chosen lines?

Clarke looks away shyly, picking up her own drink as a way of giving herself something to do. And with Clarke caught off-guard, and her own confidence spiking, Lexa presses on with the apology she’s been so desperate to give ever since she saw Clarke across the bar and realised she might have a chance to redeem herself after their first meeting.

“Clarke, I really must apologise for how I came across the other night,” says Lexa. “I promise you, that’s not normal behaviour for me. Obviously I had a lot going on and then you showed up and took me completely by surprise.”

Clarke looks back up at Lexa, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and she says, “Normally when girls fall for me, it’s not because they’ve been tasered.”

Lexa’s cheeks flush pink, though she thinks that Clarke’s teasing is flirtatious rather than actually mocking Lexa.

“Hardly my finest moment,” admits Lexa.

“I know there’s probably a lot you can’t tell me, but I’m curious about one thing,” says Clarke. She leans a little closer, then asks, “How do you get into being a secret agent?”

Lexa relaxes somewhat, because she doesn’t need to construct elaborate lies to answer this question. She can just be herself and tell the truth, and hope that Clarke likes the _real_ Lexa.

“I joined the army straight out of school at eighteen,” answers Lexa. “Well, I tried to. I shattered my kneecap during basic training and had to drop out.”

Lexa grimaces at the memory. One moment she had been pushing herself to complete the obstacle course in the best possible time, and the next, one of her fellow trainees’ hands, slick with the rainwater that pounded down relentlessly over the training compound, slipped through her own while helping her up a sheer wall and she was falling from the high obstacle. The only thing that Lexa can remember from that point with any degree of clarity is the sickening pain, and she feels a twinge of pain in her knee as she recalls the horrendous agony.

“I had surgery on my knee and lots of physiotherapy,” Lexa continues to tell the story, while Clarke listens and watches with concern on her face. “I was just thinking about starting training again when a friend recommended me for a vacancy in intelligence. I went for it and I got it and now here I am.”

“Wow,” says Clarke, appearing impressed. “That all sounds way more exciting than my life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” says Lexa. “Your mum is the first female President of the United States!”

“ _Mum_ ,” grins Clarke, mocking Lexa’s accent.

Rolling her eyes and pretending to be offended, though she secretly thinks that Clarke’s playful teasing is the best thing to happen to her all year, Lexa asks, “Did you ever think that your life would end up like this?”

The smile slides off Clarke’s face, replaced by a thoughtful frown. She pauses for a few seconds before she answers.

“In a way, no,” Clarke tells Lexa honestly. “Obviously she’s always been in politics, but this is completely different. But also, it feels like this was always supposed to happen. I have a really vivid memory from my childhood - I must have been, like, _six_ \- and I got mad at my mom because she wouldn’t let me play outside after dinner. My dad pulled me aside and said, ‘Clarke, you have to listen to your mom. She’s going to be the President one day.’ And I think I believed him.”

“And now here you are,” concludes Lexa. “She’s the President.”

“She is,” nods Clarke, smiling proudly. “I’m so proud of her, proud of everything that she’s achieved and everything that she wants to do in the future. She’s been President for two months and she’s already leading that new global climate change initiative. There’s so much more that she wants to change. She’s the most amazing woman and the best mom I could ask for. But I do miss my old life sometimes.”

“That’s completely understandable,” says Lexa.

“God, you must think I’m such an ungrateful shit,” groans Clarke. “Complaining about being the President’s daughter when there are millions of people around the world who face real struggles every day. I’m so grateful for my life and everything in it. I mean, if my mom wasn’t President, there’s no way I’d be having a drink with a mysterious spy!”

“Mysterious?” smirks Lexa.

“You broke into my house and I have no idea wh-” Clarke trails off mid-word and Lexa thinks she can see everything click into place in Clarke’s mind and the understanding wash over Clarke’s face. “It’s to do with those other problems with the security, isn’t it?”

Lexa can’t help but smile to herself. As much as she feels as though revealing the exact details of her top secret mission to the very person whose untimely interruption the other night led to its catastrophic failure, Lexa is impressed with Clarke’s intuition and intelligence.

“Not just a pretty face,” teases Lexa.

“So,” says Clarke, her face burrowing into a frown of deep concentration, as she asks, “were you the one responsible for the others or were you trying to stop them from happening?”

“Trying to get an idea of what was behind them so we could stop them from happening again,” answers Lexa. “Unfortunately, _somebody_ showed up before I could actually do any investigating.”

Clarke grimaces and mumbles an apology, before she tentatively asks, “You’re not going to get fired, are you?”

“No. Just demoted to the really menial missions where there are no beautiful girls to distract me.”

Clarke blushes and replies, “I knew you were secretly a charmer. Nobody looks that good in a shirt and tie without being a smooth operator.”

Once again, Lexa feels a pang of sadness for the more dapper side of her wardrobe that she left behind in the hotel room. Knowing that Clarke is into that kind of look only makes Lexa more frustrated with herself that she chose not to dress up a little more for her night out.

Lexa is also worried about Clarke’s words. Though she thinks she’s doing a pretty good job of letting Clarke see the real her, she wants to make sure that Clarke knows that it’s just Lexa’s job that is extraordinary, not her.

“I don’t make a habit of this,” Lexa tries to explain to Clarke. “I don’t want you to think that I’m this international super spy who travels the world and beds a different woman in each city.”

“So I’m special?” asks Clarke, a hint of a teasing smile crossing her lips.

Lexa relaxes a little, then answers breathily, “You have no idea.”

* * *

Lexa is like a glass of ice cold water in the middle of a desert, like the sun on Clarke’s face on the first day of spring after a cold winter. Clarke has met a lot of people in her twenty years of life, and particularly in the last few months as her position in the public eye has grown, Clarke has met a lot of people who decide to try their luck at getting it on with the President’s daughter. But there’s something unique about Lexa, a burst of something refreshing, that makes her stand out from the crowds of mediocre frat boys that usually approach her in bars.

Perhaps it’s the fact that she comes across as so quintessentially British. Clarke doesn’t know if Lexa is a typical example of her people, having not met a Brit in the flesh before, but Lexa has a delicate politeness interspersed with delightful charm that has Clarke warming to her immediately.

Of course, that’s ignoring the obvious magnetism of Lexa’s job. Clarke can hardly believe that she’s sharing a drink with an _actual_ secret agent, her very own female James Bond, and the few anecdotes that Lexa shares from her career are so shrouded in combined excitement and intrigue that Clarke can’t help the way that she drinks up every single word, wanting to hear more.

Clarke realises very quickly that she’s attracted to Lexa, but who wouldn’t be? Lexa is gorgeous, a face that is two-thirds cheekbones and the rest lovely lips with a slight natural pout to them. Clarke has been attracted to Lexa since their first meeting, despite the awkward blunders from Lexa, though Clarke realises now that their initial encounter only endears her to Lexa more, knowing that even an international super spy is a flawed human. Clarke is slightly sad that Lexa isn’t wearing a shirt and tie again, having always had a little bit of a weakness for ladies in suits, but the top that Lexa wears tonight shows off toned biceps that cause Clarke’s mouth to dry out every time she ends up looking at them.

Like now.

“You’re staring,” says Lexa, her words snapping Clarke sharply out of her drooling trance. “Have I got something…?”

Lexa glances down at herself, searching for whatever imperfection she thinks might have caught Clarke’s eye, and Clarke is quick to correct her.

“No! There’s nothing.” After two and a half drinks, Clarke feels bold enough to add, “You have very nice arms, that’s all.”

“Oh,” responds Lexa, eyebrows raised in apparent surprise at Clarke’s compliment. “Thanks.”

Seeing Lexa a little bit flustered has Clarke momentarily regretting her decision to voice the truth. But arms have always been a weakness of Clarke’s, on both men and women. There’s just something about seeing a pair of strong arms and the implication of what those arms could do to her in the right situation, and all the moisture leaves Clarke’s mouth and moves south as she tries not to picture Lexa’s body above her own, one arm pinning Clarke’s hands above her head while the other does wicked things between her legs.

Clarke hasn’t had enough to drink to process thoughts like _that_.

Arms are Clarke’s weakness but so are tattoos, which Lexa also has. There’s an intricate, almost tribal-style tattoo curling around Lexa’s right bicep, and Clarke likes it _very_ much.

“What does this mean?” asks Clarke, reaching out to trace her fingertips across Lexa’s tattoo.

Clarke doesn’t miss the way that Lexa shivers slightly at her touch and she watches a ripple of goosebumps erupt across Lexa’s forearm. The bar is warm, almost too warm now that it’s getting busier, and Clarke knows that Lexa can’t be cold. The realisation that Lexa is reacting that way to her brings a smile of satisfaction to Clarke’s lips.

“It doesn’t really mean anything,” answers Lexa. “I got it when I was eighteen. I was about to join the army and I was worried about being surrounded by men twice my size so I got it because I liked the design and I thought it might make me look tougher than I felt.” Lexa pauses, and then adds, “I know this is stupid, but I also hoped that getting a tattoo would make me look gayer.”

Clarke laughs at Lexa’s reasoning, though she understands completely. She’s been guilty of adjusting her own appearance depending on whether she wants to be considered attractive by men or women, though nothing ever as extreme or as permanent as getting a tattoo.

“I like it,” she tells Lexa, brushing her fingers over the tattoo one final time before she lets her hand drop back into her own lap. “Have you got any others?”

“You’ll have to wait and find out, won’t you?” replies Lexa.

The elusive response is laced with flirtation and Clarke can’t help but hope that Lexa is implying that there might be a continuation of this conversation later, only with much fewer clothes. The thought is enough to render Clarke dazed and speechless.

When Clarke makes no immediate reply, Lexa seems to interpret her silence as something that it isn’t and starts apologising.

“I’m sorry, I don’t actually talk to girls very often,” admits Lexa. “Well, I do, but never like this.”

“Like what?” asks Clarke.

Lexa hesitates and frowns, as if trying to find the right words to explain what she means, and then starts talking.

“I’m not a stranger to talking to girls as part of a mission,” she tells Clarke. “Sometimes I get given a mark, I flirt with her a bit, tell her everything that she wants to hear, and get information out of her.” Lexa pauses momentarily again, chuckling softly under her breath, then continues amusedly, “You’d be surprised how easily some people will tell you exactly what you want to know after you tell them their hair is pretty and give them a couple of orgasms.”

Clarke’s cheeks flush at the thought of Lexa giving girls orgasms, and it takes a few seconds for her to realise that the girl she’s picturing in her head is _her_ , with her fingers fisted through Lexa’s brown hair and her back arched off a bed as Lexa’s mouth works its magic between her legs and oh _wow_ , this got inappropriate fast.

Clarke reaches for her drink and takes a long sip to cool herself down, hoping that the lighting in the bar is dim enough that Lexa won’t notice the pink tinge to her cheeks.

“But that’s _work_ ,” continues Lexa, apparently oblivious to the truly debauched direction of Clarke’s current thoughts. “I can do all that with my eyes closed because there’s no attachment there. It’s just another mission. A routine, a certain state of mind.”

“Okay, ladykiller,” teases Clarke.

Lexa shoots Clarke a look, something almost like a glare but ten times more devastating and with a hint of ‘ _done with your shit_ ’ to it. If Clarke wasn’t attracted to Lexa before, then she definitely would be now, with the slightly aloof stare that Lexa gives her that is equal parts arousing and intimidating - exactly what Clarke likes in a girl.

Lexa finally relaxes, though Clarke doesn’t think she will be able to follow suit, and continues talking.

“I never really let myself talk to girls for _me,_ you know?” says Lexa, and Clarke nods to show that she understands. “So when I do, I’m sort of completely out of my depth. You’re here, and I like that, and I like _you_ , but internally I’m panicking because I don’t know how this is supposed to go.”

There’s something endearingly attractive about Lexa’s honesty. And even though their lives are completely different, Clarke’s so regimented by the security measures in place and her desire to stay out of the public eye while Lexa’s life is full of thrills and uncertainty, Clarke thinks that this might be an area where their lives share a similarity. Because Clarke never really allows herself the luxury of getting close to other people too. Since coming into the spotlight in the last year or so, Clarke’s sexual encounters have been sparse and only with people that she implicitly trusts to remain discrete, while the possibility of romance has been so distant it might as well be on another planet.

Something about being here with Lexa, about _flirting_ with Lexa, just feels right. Clarke can only hope that trusting her intuition won’t become something she regrets.

“I’d say you’ve done pretty well so far,” says Clarke flirtatiously.

With the slight buzz from the alcohol, it’s easy to speak her mind, a sentiment that seems to be echoed by Lexa.

“You’re incredibly beautiful,” confesses Lexa.

Clarke realises that Lexa is watching her, green eyes full of an intensity that Clarke thinks she recognises as desire. Lexa’s gaze drops to Clarke’s lips, and Clarke smiles in triumph.

“See?” says Clarke, exhaling softly as she turns slightly in her seat so that she’s facing Lexa properly, rather than just sitting side by side. “This isn’t so hard, is it?”

Lexa shakes her head and starts to lean in, her eyes going cross-eyed as she tries to keep watching Clarke’s lips. Clarke lets her own eyes drift closed, tilting her head slightly to the side in anticipation of their lips meeting. She feels Lexa’s breath hit her face, still warm, and knows they they must be an immeasurably small amount of time away from actually kissing.

And then Clarke’s phone goes off.

“For fuck’s sake,” groans Clarke.

She can’t believe that they were so close to kissing. Their lips must have been only a hair’s breadth apart. If only they had spent less time flirting in the lead up to the kiss and more time just getting the fuck on with it.

“It’s fine,” says Lexa, who looks disappointed about the interruption but still leans back to put enough distance between them to clear Clarke’s head. “It might be important.”

It’s not important. A text from Raven lights up the screen of Clarke’s phone and she unlocks her phone to read it, her heart still aching with disappointment.

**Raven Reyes**  
_Left with hottie. Don’t wait up._

“Your friend has made quite the impression on Raven,” says Clarke as she taps out her reply - a thumbs up followed by a series of lewd emojis. “They’ve gone.”

“Anya has never been one to mess around,” shrugs Lexa. “If there’s something she wants, she’ll make sure that she gets it. I think that them leaving together was inevitable from the moment…”

“Lexa, I don’t want to talk about Anya and Raven,” says Clarke, switching her phone off to avoid any further interruptions and placing it face down on the table.

“No?” asks Lexa, her breath hitching in her throat.

Clarke shakes her head and just goes for it, reaching up with one hand to cup Lexa’s face and using it as an anchor to draw Lexa’s mouth to hers, even as she leans in herself.

Lexa lets out a little grunt of surprise as their lips collide, then relaxes, one of her own hands coming up to tangle into Clarke’s hair. Clarke coaxes Lexa’s lips, softer than she could ever have imagined them to be, open with her own and swipes her tongue into Lexa’s mouth, while her fingertips traced a gentle path along the sharp plane of Lexa’s jaw.

Kissing Lexa is unlike anything Clarke’s has experienced before, and certainly seems like it is realms away from the other slightly tipsy kisses she’s shared with strangers. There’s a certain familiarity to kissing Lexa that feels as though Clarke has done this a thousand times before, yet the thrill of a first kiss is still there.

And a really good first kiss it is too. Clarke has experienced her fair share of first kisses before, and the thing that most of them share is awkwardness. Noses that bump together as they get used to new angles, teeth that are a little too sharp and tongues that are too invasive - all things that Clarke has come to expect from kissing somebody for the first time.

But this feels as though Lexa has read and memorized a manual entitled _How to Give a Great First Kiss_. Because that’s exactly what this is. It’s by no means a perfect kiss, but as first kisses go, Clarke finds it hard to imagine how it could be improved. It’s just the right amount of tentative, Lexa’s lips are curiously explorative, and her hand in Clarke’s hair keeps Clarke anchored to reality when she feels so giddy that she could soar away and leave the entire world behind.

Even though Clarke was the one to initiate the kiss, she feels as though she has relinquished all control. Clarke is glad she’s sitting down because her entire body feels as though it has gone slack beneath Lexa’s lips. Lexa must have magical kissing powers, because Clarke doesn’t want to stop doing this ever.

And maybe Clarke can’t do this forever, because she will eventually need to do things like eat and shower, and she has responsibilities like college and showing her face at the right times to support her mom’s political career, but _fuck_ if she isn’t going to try to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. Which is why Clarke lets her free hand drop to Lexa’s thigh, running her fingers in light circles across the rough denim of Lexa’s pants. She gradually pushes the patterns she draws higher and higher up Lexa’s thigh, not with the intention of actually _touching_ Lexa there, because even though this is what she wants, even Clarke has a boundary of what she’s willing to do in public with a virtual stranger. But she pushes her hand high enough to just give Lexa a hint about where Clarke would be very happy to take things tonight.

Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, because Lexa pulls back from the kiss and rests her hand over Clarke’s, stopping its movements.

“Clarke, we shouldn’t…” gasps Lexa, letting her forehead drop against Clarke’s, her eyes still close as if she’s trying to will herself not to succumb.

“I know,” agrees Clarke. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Lexa lifts her forehead off Clarke’s and puts a bit of space between them, staring down into her own lap as if trying to avoid looking at Clarke’s directly in the eye.

“No, I meant that we shouldn’t … you know,” says Lexa, letting Clarke fill in the end of the sentence. “I fly back to England in the morning.”

Clarke’s heart feels heavy with disappointment as she tries to wrap it up in a layer of humor.

“And you’re worried that after one night with you, I’ll be hopelessly in love with you and heartbroken when you leave,” teases Clarke. “I’m a big girl, Lexa. I can manage my own feelings.”

“Actually, I was thinking of how early the flight is and the fact that I still need to pack. But you’re right. We’re never going to see each other again. It’s probably for the best that we leave it at a kiss.”

Clarke can’t help but find herself wondering how many times Lexa has bedded a woman for one night in a foreign city, only to never see her again. At least a few, Clarke decides, if not countless times. The thought brings an unwelcome sting to Clarke’s eyes as she wonders what is different about her compared to all those other women for Lexa not to want to sleep with her, and she quickly blinks away the tears before they can even start to glisten in her eyes.

“That’s probably sensible,” Clarke says, her words agreeing with Lexa even though her mind is screaming the opposite.

“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you though,” adds Lexa, reaching out with one hand to lace it through Clarke’s fingers.

Clarke has a horrible feeling that Lexa is trying to let her down gently, but she squeezes the fingers back anyway and tries to keep her emotions in check.

“Yeah, same.”

Lexa tilts her wrist, glancing down at the chunky - and probably very expensive - gold watch that she wears.

“It’s late,” she tells Clarke. “I’ve had a wonderful evening but I really do need to go back to my hotel. Are you going to be okay getting back on your own? I can call you an Uber if you like. I’ll even go with you on the way back to…”

“No, it’s fine,” says Clarke, shaking her head conclusively. “There’s a car waiting a couple of blocks away to take me back to the White House.”

“Good,” nods Lexa. Her gaze drops to Clarke’s lips, like she’s about to lean in for another kiss, but then she looks away, getting to her feet and saying, “Can I walk you to your car?”

Clarke masks her disappointment with a smile, standing up and picking up her jacket from where it hangs over the back of her chair. Clarke slips her arms into the sleeves, knocks back the rest of her drink in a single gulp, then nods to let Lexa know that she’s ready to leave.

The walk to the car is a silent one. Clarke wants to reach for Lexa’s hand, or to loop her arm through Lexa’s, perhaps under the guise of being a little unsteady on heels after a few drinks, but she chickens out at the last minute and they end up walking side by side without saying a word until they reach the vehicle.

“Well, here we are,” says Clarke, filling the awkward silence with unnecessary words.

Full of chivalry, Lexa reaches for the back door and opens it up, holding it open like a chauffeur so that Clarke can get into the back seat. Right when Clarke thinks that Lexa is going to close the car door and leave without saying even goodbye, never to see each other again, Lexa speaks up.

“Can we swap numbers?” she asks Clarke, taking her own phone out of the pocket of her jeans and tapping on the screen a couple of times, before holding it out to Clarke with a new contact open, ready for Clarke to input her details. “If you’re ever in London, I’d love to show you around.”

“Sure,” nods Clarke, accepting the phone and typing her number. “And if you’re ever back here…”

“I’ll give you a call,” promises Lexa.

Clarke can’t help but wonder how much truth there is to that promise, whether she will ever visit London or if Lexa will ever return to D.C., how quickly Lexa will forget about the few hours spent in Clarke’s company that will probably become an inconsequential dot in a life that is a constant whirlwind of adventure.

Lexa takes her phone back from Clarke and presses the green call button, and Clarke’s own phone starts to ring in her pocket, giving her Lexa’s number to add to her contacts later.

“I guess this is goodbye,” says Lexa, as she tucks her phone back into her pocket and takes a step back, her hand still resting on the open car door. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

It’s all a little too formal, like they didn’t spend the night flirting and then end up kissing. It’s like a business transaction, not a goodbye to a person whose tongue was in Clarke’s mouth not even ten minutes ago.

But that’s how it ends, Clarke’s brief encounter with a gorgeous British spy. The car door slams shut and the engine rumbles to life as the driver pulls away from the side of the road. Clarke lets her head drop against the window, trying her best to ignore the fact that Raven is somewhere in the city getting it on with a hot woman of her own, while she has been sent home without so much as a parting kiss.

It’s going to be a long and lonely night.

 


	6. Chapter 6

A knock on the door pulls Lexa out of a dreamless sleep. Her eyelids still feel heavy and her head like it’s separated from the rest of the world by a thin layer of cotton, making her processes slower and her awareness lacking. Lexa doesn’t think it’s a hangover, merely a product of lingering jet lag and exhaustion.

The memories of last night slowly return and the warmth they bring, like the gradual appearance of the sun on the horizon at dawn, rouses Lexa’s brain enough that she realises the knock on the door means there’s somebody outside her hotel room.

_Shit_. The flight. Throwing the covers off the bed, Lexa shoots a quick glance at the alarm clock as she races for the door, realising that they need to leave for the airport in ten minutes and she still needs to shower, dress, and finish packing. Lexa flings open the door and when she finds Merlin waiting outside, she launches into an apology.

“I’m so sorry! I overslept but if you just give me a few minutes, then I’ll…”

“You can relax, Lancelot,” says Merlin. “There’s been a change of plan and we’re not flying.”

“We’re not?”

Merlin shakes his head and says, “I’ll explain everything in Galahad’s room.”

Remembering the previous night, and with the knowledge that Anya almost certainly brought Clarke’s friend back to her hotel room from the bar, Lexa is quick to stop Merlin from moving down the hallway to Anya’s room, knowing that there is a chance her friend still has company.

“No!” she says urgently. “I’ll text her to come here.”

Lexa reaches for her phone and shoots a quick message to Anya, who replies with a thumbs up. She lets Merlin know that Anya will be with them shortly, and sure enough, Anya arrives barely a minute later.

There’s absolutely no doubt what Anya spent her night doing, and even though Lexa already had her suspicions about Raven, it’s a surprise to see Anya making no attempt to hide the evidence of her night of passion. Her hair is a wild mane, sticking out at all sorts of odd angles, and a dark purple bruise has been sucked into her neck below the corner of her jaw. Most notable is the smirk on Anya’s face, a look of satisfaction that Lexa knows can only be the result of a night spent with company.

“Morning chaps,” says Anya, almost swaggering into the room and taking a seat on the very end of Lexa’s unmade bed.

If Merlin knows that they disobeyed his request to stay in their hotel rooms last night, he makes no comment on it.

“Thanks for joining us, Galahad,” he says. “As I was saying to Lancelot, there’s been a change of plan and we’re not flying.”

Anya’s face goes on a journey through several emotions in just a few seconds - firstly surprise as she remembers the flight they were supposed to take back to the UK, then relief when she realises that their late night adventures and the subsequent lie-in haven’t jeopardised their chance to leave the country, and finally confusion about what caused their change of plan.

As in the dark as Anya is, Lexa is also curious about why their flight has been postponed after Merlin made it seem like a matter of urgency to get Lexa out of America before the US government realises that she isn’t actually an agent for MI6.

“Your glasses, ladies,” says Merlin.

Lexa reaches for the glasses that sit on the table by the bed and slides them onto her nose. Once she’s put them on, a series of pictures flash up on the lenses, all showing a person wearing dark clothes, a hood pulled up over their head to keep their face in the shadows. The pictures all share the grainy quality of being taken by a CCTV camera and most of them appear to have been taken at night, and it’s only in the last couple of images that the person’s face is zoomed in on, showing a blurred face that is definitely female.

“A lead?” asks Lexa, hopeful that after her disastrous attempt at infiltrating the White House the other night, something has been found to make their trip to the States more than just a complete waste of time.

“We think so,” replies Merlin. The CCTV images disappear, replaced by a passport-style photo of the woman, accompanied by some personal information about their suspect, and Merlin continues, “Ontari Azgeda. Adopted by Nia Azgeda when she was four years old and the younger of Nia’s two children.”

From the way that Merlin talks about these people, Lexa wonders if she’s supposed to recognise the names, but she wracks her brain and falls short.

“Azgeda?” asks Anya, seemingly more familiar than Lexa about who these people are. “Wasn’t that the name of an island in the North Sea?”

“It was,” answers Merlin with a nod. “An island in the north of Scandinavia but it spent centuries technically as a province of Russia. Nia Azgeda was their queen.”

“Was?” queries Lexa, picking up on Merlin’s repeated use of the past tense. “She died?”

“Didn’t the whole island disappear?” interjects Anya, once again more knowledgeable that Lexa.

Merlin nods again.

“The place has been virtually eradicated,” he tells them. “A combination of melting ice and rising sea levels. The population was rehoused by Russia about two years ago but Nia and her two children were given US visas a few months after that and have been living in Manhattan ever since.”

Something clicks in Lexa’s mind. She vaguely remembers seeing it on the news a few years ago and disregarding it because it seemed irrelevant. It’s only now that Lexa wishes she paid more attention, and she makes a mental note to search for the news story online when she gets a chance later.

“We pulled the CCTV footage from the areas around the White House during the security breaches and had two agents back in London looks through for anything suspicious,” Merlin tells them. “They put all of the footage through facial recognition software and the only person who showed up on more than one occasion was Ontari Azgeda. In fact, she was spotted nearby all three times that the security at the White House was breached.”

Anya lets out a low whistle and says, “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“So this Ontari is behind the breaches?” asks Lexa.

“Almost definitely,” replies Merlin. “And we know where she’s staying.”

Something lights up in Anya’s eyes, and she asks, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“We need you to wait for her to leave her hotel, then get close enough to put a tracker on her phone,” says Merlin.

“Stakeout with my best friend,” says Anya, grinning celebratorially. “What a way to spend the day!”

Lexa wonders briefly if Anya would be in this much of a good mood at the prospect of hours spent watching the front of a hotel if she hadn’t slept with Raven last night. Probably not, she realises, and Lexa thinks that maybe she should have ignored the moral part of her brain that made the decision to come back to her room alone last night, when she could instead be in an excellent mood of her own after a night to remember with Clarke.

With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a shake of her head, Lexa says, “Just go and take a shower, you idiot.”

* * *

“I think she’s ruined sex for me,” says Raven, sprawled at the foot of Clarke’s bed with the same dreamy smile that has been on her face since she returned to the White House after stopping out all night. “I don’t think it’s possible for anybody to even get close to making me feel like I did last night. God, I can’t even remember how many times I came…”

“Okay, okay!” Clarke interrupts with a grimace, because there’s a line between being best friends and oversharing and Raven has just propelled herself right over that line at the speed of light. “I get it! You had a night of mind blowing sex, while I got left high and dry.”

“I can’t believe that chick didn’t want to take you home.”

Clarke slumps back against the pillows at her headboard and folds her arms across her chest.

“Way to rub it in,” she pouts miserably.

“I only mean that Anya said her friend was really into you,” shrugs Raven. “Like she was _certain_ about that.”

“I mean, we flirted a _lot_ ,” Clarke tells Raven, her insides fluttering happily as she remembers her flirtatious exchanges and the way that Lexa’s green irises were almost completely concealed by the black holes of her pupils as she watched Clarke from beneath her eyelashes. “And we kissed.”

“You did?” asks Raven, pushing herself up onto her elbows so that she can look at Clarke with eyes full of excitement. “Was it good?”

“Obviously,” answers Clarke, smiling to herself at the memory of the way that Lexa kissed her back, not too urgent, not too gentle. “You saw her. The girl’s a goddess and she knows how to kiss.”

“Oh, you’ve got it _baaaad_ ,” grins Raven, drawing out the vowel as she teases Clarke.

“And that’s coming from Little Miss _Sex-will-never-be-the-same-again_ ,” retorts Clarke.

Raven shrugs and flops back against the bed, picking up her phone and holding it up over her face so that she can look at the screen.

“Hey, I’m not denying it,” she says to Clarke. “Plus Anya’s already sent me two underwear pics so those and the memories of last night have got me sorted for a while, if you know what I mean?”

Raven turns her head at the last moment and arches a lewd eyebrow at Clarke.

“Okay, _ew_.”

“I tell you what, I’ll stop oversharing if you stop moping,” says Raven.

Clarke hesitates, then nods in agreement as she says, “Deal.”

“Good,” grins Raven. “Because my next suggestion was going to be that you apply for a visa and move to Britain to be with her but even by gay standards that would probably be a bit much.”

Clarke laughs at Raven’s ludicrous suggestion, grateful for a best friend that knows the best way to brighten Clarke’s mood is through humor.

She prods Raven with her big toe and then says, “At least I’d be in a different time zone to you.”

Clarke spares a thought for Lexa, who in this moment is probably soaring high above the Atlantic Ocean sipping on dark scotch in the first class cabin of a plane, and realises that it’s probably for the best. In a few days, she’ll have moved on from the charming Brit, who will become nothing more than an interesting story to recount to her college buddies when they reunite after spring break.

* * *

Lexa and Anya take up a position in the window of a coffee shop across the road from Ontari Azgeda’s hotel.

Dressed in a dark grey suit, Lexa feels like herself again. She can feel the knot of her tie beneath her shirt collar and she holds herself differently as a result, her back straight, her shoulders back, her head upright. Lexa feels confident and assured, no longer the petrified girl swimming in water where she can’t see the bottom, as she felt when making feeble attempts to flirt with Clarke last night.

To the general public, they look like a pair of businesswomen having a meeting over a coffee. Anya has her tablet propped up on the table, only glancing up from it to offer her thanks to the barista who brings over a coffee for Anya, an English breakfast tea for Lexa, and a pair of double chocolate muffins. To keep up the act, Lexa withdraws a small notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket, as well as a pen, and opens it up to a clean page.

“Dear diary,” says Anya, looking at Lexa with teasing eyes over her mug of coffee. “Last night I kissed a girl and now I’m in love.”

“Piss off.”

Anya puts down her mug with a grin and says, “Okay, go on. Spill all.”

“Anya,” groans Lexa. “We’re supposed to be watching the hotel.”

“Which is why I’m tapping into their CCTV so we should know when she leaves her room,”says Anya, tilting the screen of her tablet to show her progress to Lexa.

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise. Anya has always been far more adept with computers than her, but she’s still impressed with Anya’s quick thinking and skill in the field.

A message pops up on the screen with an image attachment, and Lexa lets out a groan of protest and shields her eyes, having seen far more of Raven than she ever anticipated seeing.

“Sorry,” Anya says sheepishly, turning her tablet around to face her again and tapping at the screen. “That wasn’t meant for your eyes.”

“Do you really think you should still be in contact with Raven?” asks Lexa.

“Relax,” replies Anya. “She thinks I’m thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic making use of the wifi on the plane to send her dirty pics. She was a good lay and I don’t see a problem with having a bit of harmless fun!”

Lexa shakes her head slowly in disapproval but says nothing, knowing better than to try to dissuade Anya from doing what she wants.

“Anyway, back to you,” says Anya, swiftly changing me the subject. “Are you going to pass up an opportunity to talk about the girl you like?”

Lexa pauses. It’s not really in her nature to talk about her feelings. In fact, Lexa’s feelings are kept inside a ziplock bag set in a cement block locked inside a safe that has been dropped into the deepest ocean ravine. Talking about her feelings seems as monumental a challenge as diving down to the bottom and swimming back up with that safe in tow, but she can’t deny that there’s a part of her that _wants_ to talk about Clarke, that _wants_ to gush about her pretty Clarke is and how Clarke makes her insides go all fluttery.

“Well,” Lexa starts, “she’s really nice.”

“Nice?” repeats Anya, arching an eyebrow.

“And funny,” admits Lexa.

“Funny?”

With Anya parroting her words back to her with a look of mild amusement on her face, Lexa feels her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. She doesn’t think she’s able to articulate all the things that Clarke is in just a few words. Clarke is _nice_ , but she’s also compassionate and thoughtful and intelligent. She’s funny, but she’s also assured and strong-willed and fierce. Lexa may as well take a dictionary of nothing but positive adjectives and just throw it at Anya to give her an idea of what Clarke is like but even that wouldn’t be enough. Clarke is a person whose magic is all in her physicality, somebody who has to be experienced in the flesh to get a glimpse of all that she has the potential to mean to Lexa.

And all of that is far too terrifying to explain to Anya. Lexa would rather take another fifty thousand volts from a taser gun.

Gesturing to Anya’s tablet, Lexa asks, “How close are you to getting the CCTV?”

“Ninety-two percent,” replies Anya, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t change the subject.”

“What do you want me to say?” says Lexa, with an exasperated sigh. “That she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, that she’s funny and kind and intelligent to boot, that she’s gorgeous and kissing her made me go weak at the knees and it took every bit of self-restraint not to take her back to my hotel room last night?”

“And there we have it,” says Anya, smiling in satisfaction. “Proof that you’re the _biggest_ lesbian I’ve ever met. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

“Well I’m not going to see her again so I just need to woman up and get over her,” says Lexa, frowning and folding her arms across her chest. As soon as the words leave her lips, Lexa tuts softly and rolls her eyes at herself, and then says, “ _Get over her_. Have you heard me? I’ve met her twice. I need to get a bloody grip!”

Anya takes a sip from her coffee, then nonchalantly suggests, “You could see her again.”

Lexa’s head snaps up. Having resigned herself to a future of pining over Clarke and the fond memories she has of last night and the kiss they shared, Lexa hasn’t allowed herself to daydream about the possibility of seeing Clarke again. After all, until an hour and a half ago, Lexa thought she would be returning to England, never to see or hear from Clarke again.

“We’re still in America,” Anya reminds Lexa. “You could see her again.”

Anya’s words plant a seed of hope in Lexa’s chest, one that Lexa immediately tries to smother. Hope is for people who don’t have a matter of foreign security to deal with. Hope is for children with big dreams and teenagers with hidden passions. Hope is not something that Lexa allows herself the luxury of being able to feel.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” says Lexa, shaking her head. “I won’t have time.”

The light in Anya’s eyes flickers out and the smile falls from her lips, replaced by a pitiful frown.

“Why do you do this?” she asks.

Lexa keeps her expression steely and her gaze down, deliberately looking anywhere but at Anya, who she knows is staring at her with an intensity that is probably powerful enough to propel Lexa right back to England.

“Do what?” mumbles Lexa.

“Destroy your own chances at happiness before they can even happen.”

Lexa absently swirls her teaspoon around in her mug of tea, watching it like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen, before finally, in a voice tinged with sadness, she says, “It wouldn’t happen anyway. It’s unrealistic.”

“Yeah, if you tell yourself that then of course it is.”

Anya reaches across the table between them and rests her hand over Lexa’s, who mentally prepares herself for the inevitable insight that Anya is about to impart upon her, like a cargo train of wisdom hitting Lexa at full speed. She even hears the breath that Anya takes in before speaking and she waits for the words. But Lexa feels Anya’s attention wander at the last moment, and when she finally glances up to look at Anya to find out why she hasn’t said anything more, Anya’s eyes are watching something on the screen of her tablet.

“And we’re going to continue this conversation later,” Anya says, draining her coffee and getting to her feet. “Our mark has just left her hotel room. Drink up.”

Lexa drains the dregs of tea in the bottom of her cup and raises a hand to flag down the barista walking past their table carrying a tray of empty cups.

“A small black coffee to go, please,” says Lexa, and the barista nods.

They gather their things together as they wait for the coffee to arrive, and while Lexa leaves the crumbs of her half-eaten muffin on the table, Anya wraps hers up in the waxed paper case and tucks it into her pocket for later. Anya’s eyes stay trained on the screen of her tablet.

“She’s still in the lift,” Anya tells Lexa. “We’ve got about a minute tops before she leaves the hotel.”

Thankfully, the barista is speedy in bringing over Lexa’s coffee, and Lexa makes sure to offer her profound thanks, throwing a handful of green bills onto the table, probably totalling far more than the coffee itself but it doesn’t matter - she can claim it back in expenses later.

“There she is,” says Anya, as they hurry out of the coffee shop, pointing across the road to the dark-haired woman that emerges from the hotel. “And she’s holding her phone. We should act now.”

They have to wait for the traffic lights to change at the pedestrian crossing, by which time Ontari has moved quite considerably ahead. But the pavements aren’t particularly crowded and they’re able to move fast, quick enough to start gaining on her but not so quickly that they draw attention to themselves.”

“Is everything ready?” asks Lexa, gesturing down to the tablet still in Anya’s head.

“Ready when you are,” nods Anya.

Lexa’s fingers pry open the lid on her styrofoam cup of coffee, loosening it ever so slightly. She looks up at Ontari, now only a few feet ahead of them, checks that the woman’s smartphone is still in her hand, and then decides that it’s time to make her move.

Lexa pushes on ahead of Anya, speeding up into a light jog, as if she’s running to catch the next crossing before the lights change, and deliberately bumps her shoulder into Ontari as she passes the woman. The collision dislodges the already loose lid on the coffee and with an over exaggerated jerk of Lexa’s hand, the dark liquid spills down Ontari’s side.

More importantly, it sends Ontari’s phone clattering to the ground, skidding a few feet away across concrete.

“What the fuck?” snarls Ontari. “Watch where you’re going!”

“I’m so sorry,” gushes Lexa, feigning horror at the fact that her drink has ended up drenching a stranger’s clothes.

In the incident, some of the scalding coffee spilt over Lexa’s own hand but she ignores the burn and produces a packet of tissues from her pocket. Behind Ontari, Anya is lurking in the doorway to a restaurant with her tablet out, and Lexa just needs to keep Ontari distracted for a minute, so she tears open the tissues and starts dabbing at the dark stain seeping into Ontari’s top.

“Get off me!” Ontari snaps aggressively, snatching the tissue from Lexa’s hand and using it on herself.

In the background, Anya prowls over to the phone on the floor and picks it up, and while to the undiscerning eye it looks like she’s just trying to be helpful, brushing the dust from it and checking it for cracks, Lexa knows that there’s so much more going on.

When Anya strides towards them moments later, Lexa knows that the job is done and she’s a little less forceful with her ‘help’.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Anya, holding the phone out to Ontari in an outstretched hand. “I think you dropped this.”

Ontari snatches her phone ungratefully from Anya’s hand, checking both the front and the back for scratches. Only when satisfied does she glance back up at Lexa.

“Thanks for nothing, shitpot!” spits Ontari, before turning and storming away down the pavement.

“What a charming individual,” comments Anya sarcastically, once Ontari is out of earshot. “Though I do like ‘shitpot’. I might start incorporating that into my own vocabulary.”

Lexa has much more pressing concerns that Ontari’s colourful choice of parting words.

“Is it done?”

“I cloned her phone directly onto my tablet,” nods Anya. “We’ll be able to see texts and emails, listen into calls she makes or receives, and even track her location. And there won’t be a trace of it on her phone.”

Anya tilts her tablet towards Lexa, showing a street map of Washington D.C., where a blinking green blob slowly moves away from their current position in the direction that Ontari just left.

“Well done!” Lexa congratulates Anya.

“Dream team at it again,” says Anya, wrapping an arm around Lexa’s shoulder. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Is your hand going to be okay?”

Lexa looks down at the hand she spilled coffee over. It’s redder than the other, and perhaps a little sore too, but it doesn’t hurt much and Lexa doubts it will leave any permanent scarring.

“It’ll be fine,” she assures Anya. “What now? I was expecting our stakeout to take far longer than that.”

“We could find somewhere for lunch,” suggests Anya, tucking her tablet inside her jacket. “Then we could do some sightseeing. Take silly photos in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I doubt our suspect will do anything interesting before the sun goes down.”

Lexa considers Anya’s plan for a moment, then nods in agreement, deciding that having a few touristy photos to show her younger brother when she next sees him will alleviate some of his curiosity about her sudden trip to America. As much as Aden will find it infinitesimally cool that his older sister is a secret agent, she has to keep that part of her life from him, though it does lead to some tricky questions about her lifestyle and her many trips out of the country.

“And if she does, then we’ll know about it straight away anyway,” says Lexa. “Let’s go and eat.”

* * *

They wait four days before anything exciting happens. Ontari’s communications during that time are all above board and there’s nothing suspicious about her movements, not even when they spend half a day tailing her out of sheer boredom.

Lexa spends those four days thinking about Clarke. She replays their kiss over and over again in her mind until she’s half-convinced that the memory is a product of fictitious thought. And she thinks a lot about Clarke’s phone number, wondering if she should text her.

After much deliberation, she decides against it. Clarke probably doesn’t want to hear from her anyway. Besides, it’s safer for their mission if Clarke thinks that Lexa has returned to London.

It’s late afternoon on the fourth day after bumping into Ontari when something finally happens. Sitting in an Irish pub a couple of blocks away from their hotel, Anya tracks Ontari’s movements on a map, while Lexa sifts through archives of Ontari’s old emails to find anything that could be considered suspicious.

“I think we might have something,” says Anya, nudging Lexa with her foot beneath the table to get Lexa’s attention.

Anya turns her tablet so that they can both see the screen and Lexa leans a little closer to see what Anya is talking about. There’s a blinking green dot on the screen marking Ontari’s current location, swiftly moving along a street somewhere in D.C.

“She’s moving towards the White House,” explains Anya, and Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise. Noting Lexa’s reaction, Anya presses on and says, “I know. This is the closest she’s got to the White House in days and she’s heading straight for it.”

“Do you think she’s going to break in? Or whatever it is that she does when the security gets breached?”

“I would bet my left leg that something is going to happen at the White House tonight,” agrees Anya. “And if it does, then Ontari Azgeda _has_ to be the one responsible.”

“So we need to use tonight to find out what she’s up to,” says Lexa, her heart beginning to pump faster at the prospect of finally making some progress in this mission. “Can you do that through her phone?”

“Possibly,” says Anya, turning her tablet back so that she can look at it properly, her fingers dancing across the screen. “But there’s no guarantee we’ll find anything and then we’ll have to wait for the _next_ time she violates the American government.”

“We could follow her,” suggests Lexa. “Find out what she’s up to that way.”

Anya pauses, as if contemplating Lexa’s idea, then says slowly, “I have another idea. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for your continued support on this story. It makes me so happy to see how much this story is being enjoyed by so many!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - it's one of my favourites!

When Clarke’s phone goes off with an incoming call, she almost ignores it entirely.

It’s been a lazy day, the _best_ kind of day. Three hours deep into a Netflix marathon that Raven has only just abandoned to go for a nap in her guest bedroom down the hall, Clarke plans to stay in a near-vegetative state until dinner. The last thing that Clarke wants to do is have to speak with another human being, least of all a likely cold-caller trying to sell her insurance premiums or attempting to scam her out of thousands of dollars.

But something pulls Clarke to reach for her phone, and when she sees the name on the screen, she’s _so_ glad that she does.

“Hello?” comes a familiar British voice through the speaker of the phone, when Clarke taps to accept the call. “Clarke? It’s Lexa, from the bar the other night.” Lexa hesitates for a moment and then, as if there could still be any doubt in Clarke’s mind as to who she is speaking to on the phone, adds, “The one who snuck into the White House.”

“Oh, _that_ Lexa!” teases Clarke. “I know who you are.”

Clarke plays it off lightly but internally she’s having a little bit of a meltdown. Though she’s only speaking to Lexa on the phone and Lexa has no way of knowing that Clarke is curled up in bed wearing pyjamas that are covered in a sprinkling of Cheeto dust, Clarke feels incredibly self-conscious about the fact that she’s been caught off-guard by possibly the world’s most attractive human being.

And, apparently, one of the stupidest too.

“I didn’t know if you had other friends called Lexa,” replies Lexa.

“Yes. Tons.” And then, because Clarke can’t quite resist, “None of them quite like you though. How was your flight back to the UK?”

“About that,” says Lexa, dragging out her words. “We never left America. Something came up.”

“You’re still here?” gasps Clarke. She lowers her voice and adds, “And you didn’t call me sooner?”

“I was really busy, I’m sorry,” apologises Lexa, and Clarke immediately feels a little guilty because she knows that Lexa has an incredibly busy life that doesn’t revolve around a girl she’s met twice. “Work stuff, you know? But I actually have a favour to ask you.”

Intrigued, Clarke says breathily, “Go on.”

“I need to get back into the White House,” says Lexa. “I mean, I could break in again and even though they’re probably on high alert after last time, Anya and I would be able to think of something, but I thought that maybe you could help one of us get in?”

“Yes!” Clarke blurts out, because she has a feeling that Lexa is about to suggest that they use Raven to get Anya into the White House and Clarke would really rather not pass up an opportunity to see Lexa another time. “I can help you get in. When were you thinking?”

“As soon as possible?” asks Lexa. “Like, within the next hour?”

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up across her forehead. The request for access to the White House is strange enough, considering what happened to Lexa the last time she was here. But that Lexa wants to be here so soon, where Clarke’s unshowered, Cheeto-covered ass is lazily lounging around, is even more of a surprise.

“Are you always this much hard work?” asks Clarke, clambering out of her bed and racing over to the closet to start picking out possible outfits so that she looks her very best for Lexa’s arrival. “Let me think, I could tell my parents that you’re my girlfriend.”

“What?” gasps Lexa. “Your mum has already met me. That’ll never work.”

Clarke has to agree that the idea is pretty far-fetched, but the ideas start flooding through, and she voices them aloud as she thinks for Lexa’s benefit.

“No, hear me out,” she tells Lexa, mind whirring at a thousand miles a minutes. “I could tell them that I snuck you in the other night and that’s why you were here in the White House. We’ll say that it’s a new relationship and we were worried about making it public so soon, especially with Mom working so hard on this climate change reform agreement. So I snuck you in and you got mistaken for an intruder so we faked the whole MI6 thing to get you out of trouble. And tonight I want to introduce you to them properly as my girlfriend.”

Clarke is just rambling now, speaking her thoughts as they come into her mind. Lexa, meanwhile, just hums at appropriate moments, like she’s deep in thought.

“This is crazy,” says Lexa, once Clarke has finished spouting her near-nonsensical stream of consciousness.

“I know, but it’ll work,” insists Clarke. “I _know_ it will! And then in a few weeks, we can have an amicable break-up - maybe long distance isn’t really working for us - and then it’ll all be done.”

Lexa grumbles incomprehensibly on the other end of the line, then finally concedes.

“Well my idea was that you sneak me in through your bedroom window, so I guess yours is much better.”

“The window thing only works in movies with characters that don’t have armed guards positioned on the roof,” says Clarke amusedly. “I’ll go and talk to my parents. I bet I can send a car to pick you up from your hotel.”

“You’re the best, Clarke,” Lexa gushes her thanks. “I don’t know how I can possibly repay you for helping me out.”

Clarke’s mind immediately plummets into the deepest pits of depravity, her imagination running wild and conjuring up countless different ways that she would love to let Lexa repay the favour, each one involving very minimal clothing and Lexa’s mouth doing sinful things to Clarke. It is with great reluctance that Clarke tries to push those thoughts to the furthest corners of her mind, saving them for later when she is alone and the whole world is dark and silent.

“We can deal with that another time,” she tells Lexa. “Text me the address of your hotel and I’ll see you a bit later.”

* * *

 

Lexa is perhaps more nervous the second time of entering the White House than the first.

Clarke sends a car to pick Lexa up outside her hotel, a sleek black vehicle with dark windows and a driver who doesn’t utter a word the entire journey. The White House is stunning at dusk, white columns more majestic than ever under the orange glow of the sunset as they pull through the gates.

Lexa’s heart hammers at what feels like a thousand beats per minute as she gets out of the car and looks up at the White House. She checks her appearance in the polished reflection of the car, pleased with the fit of the nicest suit she brought with her to America. She’s chosen a bold red tie, knowing that it goes well with the charcoal fabric of the suit and hoping that it will make a good impression and help her to feel more assured.

As she walks up to the front door, a last minute wave of panic washes over Lexa as she worries that there will just be a lot of security on the other side, waiting to taser her again and lock her up for good this time.

The reality turns out to be much worse.

There are only three people in the lobby, and one of them is Clarke, pacing up and down nervously. But it’s the other two that send a shiver of trepidation down Lexa’s spine - Clarke’s parents, Abigail and Jacob Griffin, the President and First Husband of the United States. They stand side by side with their hands clasped behind their backs like two pillars of solidarity between Lexa and the successful completion of this mission.

Lexa tries to approach them bravely, but she’s not sure that even her suit and tie are going to help her get through this.

“Madam President,” says Lexa, inclining her head politely and offering out her hand. “Mr Griffin.”

Lexa shakes each hand in turn, recalling the blog post she read about giving strong handshakes in her first few weeks as a Kingsman agent.

“Call me Jake,” says Clarke’s dad, offering Lexa a warm smile that does very little to quell her nerves. “If you’re dating my daughter, there’s no need for formalities.”

Lexa’s eyes flit across to Abby, waiting to see if she’ll say something similar.

“And I’m still the President so it’ll be Mrs Griffin or ma’am to you,” says Abby.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Lexa obediently.

“Mom,” whines Clarke, taking a few steps closer.

Abby Griffin’s face relaxes into a smile, and she says, “I’m kidding, obviously. You passed the first test. Now, Lexa, we’ve already had stern words with Clarke about the stupidity of the other night. I’m sure you understand the severity of the situation.”

“Of course,” agrees Lexa. “We shouldn’t have tried to sneak around behind your backs. It was an impulsive decision and in hindsight, we shouldn’t have done it.”

“We understand,” says Jake, a twinkle in his blue eyes that reminds Lexa so much of a look that Clarke gave her in the bar the other night. “We were young once too. Abby’s parents caught me sneaking out of her bedroom window at two in the morning on our prom night and she got grounded for two weeks.”

“The difference being that we lived in the suburbs of New Hampshire and not in the White House,” interjects Abby. “As long as it doesn’t happen again then we can all move on and forget the whole thing. While you’re Clarke’s girlfriend, you’re welcome through our front door.”

Lexa bites her tongue to stop herself from making a comment about how she entered through the front door last time too.

“So, Lexa, where in Britain are you from?” asks Jake.

“I live in London at the moment but I grew up near Oxford,” answers Lexa.

“Dad, this isn’t twenty questions,” says Clarke, closing the gap between her and Lexa, and taking Lexa’s hand, slotting her fingers through Lexa’s. “Come on, babe.”

Lexa knows that it’s all for show, that Clarke is only holding her hand and calling her ‘babe’ to keep up a pre-agreed act in front of her parents, but Lexa tries to enjoy the feeling that it sends through her body, knowing that it’s the tiniest glimpse into a future that will never materialise.

“God, they’re awful,” complains Clarke, when they reach the top of the stairs and start making their way towards Clarke’s room. “Are your parents like that?”

“They’re alright,” shrugs Lexa, noting the way that Clarke’s hand doesn’t drop Lexa’s, even though they are no longer under the scrutiny of Clarke’s parents. “I’ve never introduced them to a girlfriend though, so I don’t know how they’d be in that situation.”

“Never?” asks Clarke, eyes wide in surprise.

“I’ve only had one serious relationship and it was when I was seventeen,” explains Lexa. “She was an overseas student at my boarding school and she never met my family because she would go back to Italy during the holidays.”

Though Lexa’s dads never met Costia, they were besotted by just the thought of her, and Lexa can’t even begin to prepare herself for the delight they will share when she does eventually have somebody she can bring home to meet them.

“Boarding school?” asks Clarke, arching an eyebrows as her lips curl up into an amused smile. “Of course. Was it like Hogwarts?”

“Not at all,” says Lexa. “I didn’t see a single dragon in seven years of secondary school.”

“Three-headed dogs?”

Lexa laughs softly under her breath, and then quips, “Well, that’s one way of looking at the headmistress and her two deputies.”

Clarke finally releases Lexa’s hand as they reach the door to her bedroom, which she pushes open and leads the way inside.

“Well, here we are,” says Clarke. “This is my room, though it doesn’t really feel like it yet.”

The bedroom is surprisingly devoid of personal touches, though Lexa supposes that Clarke hasn’t had much time to make the space hers yet. In fact, there are still a few cardboard boxes behind the door, contents spilling out of them like Clarke has made an attempt at unpacking but given up pretty quickly. There are some photos pinned up around the mirror, a laptop open on the bed, and a few clothes strewn over the back of a chair, but the room is otherwise almost unlived in, hardly more Clarke’s room than it could be anybody else’s.

The most notable thing when they enter the room, however, is the girl perched on the end of the bed, who Lexa recognises immediately.

“Hi, Lexa,” says Raven, getting to her feet as soon as the two girls have entered Clarke’s room. “ _Lovely_ to see you again.”

Lexa is thrown by Raven’s unexpected appearance and is unsure how much she knows, not knowing whether Anya told Raven anything about their work or even if Clarke has filled her best friend in on Lexa’s reason for being here tonight.

Seemingly reading Lexa’s mind, Raven just grins and says, “You two don’t fool me with the whole girlfriend act. I know exactly what’s going on here. You two just want to get it on!”

It takes a few seconds for Lexa to process Raven’s words, but as soon as she understands the implications, her cheeks turn as red as the tie she wears.

Apparently happy with the fact that she has stunned both girls into silence, Raven sidles towards the door with an air of smugness.

“Anyway, I need to go and call Anya, because she owes me big time for not telling me she never left the country. I’ll just leave you two to…”

Raven trails off, letting Lexa and Clarke fill in the rest, and Clarke waits for Raven to leave the room before launching into an apology.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t give her that idea! I just told her that you were coming over and that if my parents asked her, then I’m dating you.”

Lexa pauses for thought, considering the way that Raven has taken that idea and transformed it into her own conclusions, then says, “She and Anya are so much better matched than I first thought.”

“Speaking of, Raven won’t shut up about Anya’s ‘magical tongue’,” grimaces Clarke, making air quotes with her fingers as she says the last two words.

Lexa mirrors Clarke’s wince and then says, “I’ll pass on the good review.”

Feeling a little restricted by her suit in the warmth of Clarke’s bedroom, Lexa removes her jacket and drapes it over the end of Clarke’s bed, then unbuttons her cuffs, meticulously rolling up each sleeve until they sit in perfectly neat folds at her elbows. It’s partially for comfort, but as she reveals her tanned forearms inch by inch, she remembers what Clarke said in the bar the other night about Lexa’s arms and can’t help but take slightly longer than necessary, hoping that Clarke is watching the show.

Lexa hears Clarke’s breath hitch in her throat, and smiles to herself in triumph.

“Anyway, I have a job to do,” Lexa reminds Clarke.

“I like this,” blurts out Clarke, gesturing to Lexa’s outfit. “This look. It suits you.”

“Oh,” says Lexa, slightly taken aback by the compliment. “Thanks.”

One of Clarke’s hands reaches out and touches Lexa’s red tie, and she says, “Pretty hard to resist, I’d say.”

Lexa feels her mouth go incredibly dry, and it’s a little bit of a struggle to get out any words.

“I think Raven has been planting ideas in your mind,” she manages to croak.

“I don’t think Raven has anything to do with it,” replies Clarke in a low voice.

Lexa is about three seconds away from throwing Clarke down onto the bed and mounting her, but thankfully there’s still a small part of her brain that hasn’t succumbed entirely to desire, and she reminds herself that as much as she may wish is the case, she’s not actually here to flirt with Clarke.

Clearing her throat, Lexa says, “Work.”

“Right,” nods Clarke, glancing away with pink-tinged cheeks. “What needs to be done?”

“We’re pretty sure that there will be another security breach tonight and we want to let it happen so we can figure out why they’re doing it. And I’d like to see if I can get a bug into the security office to listen in on their reaction to the breach.”

“I don’t know how I feel about helping you do this,” admits Clarke. “Like obviously I want to do the right thing, but I feel like I’m not just lying to my parents, but betraying my country too.”

“It’s for the greater good,” Lexa assures her. “And I really appreciate your help. I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you.”

As a final touch, Lexa reaches out and takes Clarke’s hand in her own, making sure to make eye contact in a well-rehearsed look of seduction.

It may have worked on other girls, but Clarke is smart enough to see straight through the ruse.

“Oh, now that is clearly a line!”

Lexa blushes at being caught out and replies, “Maybe so, but I do mean it. You’ve been a huge help.”

“I can get you into the security office,” says Clarke suddenly.

Lexa doesn’t know if it’s her sweet-talking that has worked or if Clarke is just naturally inclined to help her. Either way, she’s relieved to hear Clarke’s offer.

“You can?”

Clarke nods and explains, “When I first arrived here, I had trouble connecting to the WiFi and I asked the guys in there to authorise my access. We can take your phone there and get them to do it for you too. And while we’re in there you can plant your bug, or whatever.”

Lexa considers the idea, then nods.

“With resourcefulness like that, you could work in intelligence,” she comments. “You sure it’ll work?”

“One hundred percent,” says Clarke. “You only need to get in there, right?”

Lexa nods, pulling out a tiny object not too dissimilar to a sticker, with a back that can be peeled off to reveal an adhesive. All Lexa needs to do is stick it to a concealed surface in the security office, and she and Anya will both have a live audio feed of everything that is said in that room.

“Now?” asks Clarke. When Lexa nods, Clarke beckons and says, “Come on.”

They leave Clarke’s bedroom and wander down the hallway, the same hallway where the pair first met, and Lexa’s mind is greeted with unfortunate flashbacks of writhing on the floor as fifty thousand volts coursed through her body. She shudders at the memory, hoping that she isn’t going to get found out for a second time and face the same treatment again.

This time, however, Lexa has one crucial weapon on her side - Clarke.

“Excuse me,” says Clarke, knocking shyly on the door to the security office when they arrive there and slowly pushing open the door.

Both of the secret service agents inside the room glance up when the door opens, and Clarke takes a couple of steps across the threshold.

“Hi guys, I know you’re probably really busy,” starts Clarke, speaking to the men with a persuasive familiarity, “but would we be able to connect my girlfriend’s phone to the WiFi?”

Lexa’s insides do a little flip when Clarke uses the word ‘girlfriend’, and she has to remind herself that it’s all part of their act.

Both pair of eyes flicker across to Lexa, lurking just behind Clarke, and she steps forward into the office, pulling her phone out of her trouser pocket with one hand while the other peels the back off the little sticker inside her other pocket.

One of the men nods and hold out his hand, so Lexa swiftly unlocks the phone and passes it across to him. She takes a couple of steps backwards as she watches him work, until she is standing next to one of the desks covered in a wealth of computer equipment. Under the pretence of leaning on the desk while she waits, Lexa slips her hand out of her pocket and presses the sticker to the underside of the desk, where it will only be seen by somebody on the floor looking upwards, then pushes it firmly to activate it.

“There you go,” says the man, holding out Lexa’s phone for her to accept. “All sorted.”

“Thanks, Jackson,” Clarke says with a smile. “You’re a star.”

Lexa offers her own thanks and backs out of the room, with Clarke close behind her. Clarke makes sure to shut the door, then they start to return to Clarke’s room.

“Did you do it?” asks Clarke, her voice low as if afraid of being overheard by the men in the office, even through the closed door.

“All done,” answers Lexa. “I can check that it’s working back in your room.”

By the time they make it back to Clarke’s room, Lexa already knows that her bug is functioning, by way of a text from Anya telling Lexa that she’s listening to the two secret service agents in the security office talking about sports.

“Well, seems it worked,” Lexa relays the good news to Clarke, as she tucks her phone into her trouser pocket. “Now we just wait.”

Clarke closes the bedroom door, leaving them isolated from the rest of the house, and flops down on the end of the bed.

“I think I like this spy stuff,” she muses aloud. “I feel like I’m in a movie. Does it always feel like this?”

Lexa smiles to herself because she’s had moments like Clarke is describing many times during her career as an agent, though they become less frequent the more experienced she gets. With each mission, Lexa finds that it’s gets a little less surreal, although she can’t deny that the exhilaration of a mission still gets her heart racing like the very first time.

“It’s certainly better than your average office job,” admits Lexa.

“Did you always want to do something like this?” asks Clarke. “Well, I know you originally planned to join the army, but did you ever think your life could be like this?”

“I never thought I’d be here with you,” replies Lexa.

“Charmer.”

Lexa can’t help but smile in triumph, even as Clarke rolls her eyes in mock exasperation.

“No, I didn’t think my life would be like this,” Lexa answers truthfully. “I always knew that I wanted to do something worthwhile, that’s why I decided against university and signed up for the army. But this was never a possibility. It’s beyond what I could have ever expected.”

“What’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done in this job?” asks Clarke.

“Well, I broke into the White House earlier this week and ended up pretending to be the girlfriend of the President’s daughter,” replies Lexa, shooting Clarke a teasing smile. “I’d say that’s pretty exciting.”

“I’m serious,” pouts Clarke, giving Lexa a stern look. “You must have done some really crazy things.”

“I broke into a Peruvian brothel once,” muses Lexa.

Clarke’s jaw drops open.

“Oh, I bet you loved that!”

“Not exactly,” replies Lexa, grimacing at the memory. “They were trafficking young boys. We broke down one of the biggest pedophile rings in South America. And if you think that sounds crazy, it all happened only a few days after I nearly crashed a plane into the Amazon rainforest.”

“You know how to fly?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have nearly crashed,” says Lexa, recalling the stomach churning moments where she thought she was going to plummet thousands of feet to her death and have her body lost forever in the densest covering of trees in the world. “To this day I don’t know how I managed to keep the plane in the air long enough to make a semi-safe landing.”

Clarke watches Lexa in awe, and Lexa feels her cheeks start to burn a little. In the thick of a new mission, Lexa rarely allows herself the time to process how dangerous and exhilarating some of the things she does are. It’s only now, with Clarke gaping at her like she’s an endangered zoo animal, that Lexa realises how strange her life must seem to somebody who experiences a relatively normal life.

Well, as normal as life can be for the daughter of the leader of the free world. Lexa supposes that Clarke’s life is pretty out of the ordinary to most people too, though in an entirely different way to Lexa’s.

“This is easily the most exciting thing to happen to me,” admits Clarke. She laughs softly, then says, “Nobody would believe them if I told them. ‘What did you do for spring break?’ ‘Oh, you know, just smuggled a British spy into the White House and made out with her.”

“You make it sound like you’ve snuck me in here specifically to kiss me,” teases Lexa.

Clarke seems to realise her mistake too late. Lexa watches as the colour drains from Clarke’s face, her eyes comically wide and her mouth hanging open.

“I just meant…” she stammers. “Well, maybe I was _kind of_ hoping it might happen again.”

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat and she feels a little intimidated by the way Clarke watches her, like those gorgeous blue eyes are casting a spotlight upon her. But Clarke has just confessed to wanting to kiss Lexa again, which is basically every fantasy of the last four days finally coming true, and if Lexa gets one thing right tonight then let it be this over the mission itself.

“Well,” says Lexa, speaking slowly so as to stop herself from tripping over her own words in excitement, “we need something to do to pass the time.”

Clarke’s eyes darken at Lexa’s words and she gets to her feet, closing the gap between them. Her hand reaches up for the red tie that hangs from Lexa’s neck between their bodies, playing with it absently. Lexa’s hands, meanwhile, instinctively seek out Clarke’s hips, resting them there to anchor herself to Clarke, like she’s afraid that Clarke will disappear entirely if she doesn’t keep ahold of her.

Turning them around, Lexa takes a couple of steps backwards until the backs of her legs hit the bed. Lexa takes a seat, and with her hands still on Clarke’s hips, it encourages Clarke to climb into her lap to eliminate the new height difference. Though Clarke is the one on top, Lexa feels surprisingly in control. In control of her mind, in control of her hands, though perhaps not quite so in control of the erratic thump of her heart, so loud that Clarke _must_ be able to hear it.

That is, until Clarke leans forward, tipping Lexa backwards until her back hits the mattress with a soft thump. Clarke moves with her, holding her body up above Lexa’s but her hair falls in a curtain around their faces, isolating them from the rest of the room.

“Hey there,” says Clarke breathily, sweeping her hair out of the way and flicking it over one shoulder.

“Hi,” exhales Lexa, awestruck by the proximity of Clarke’s face to her own, so close that Lexa almost has to go cross-eyed just to be able to look at her.

Clarke’s lips curl up into a slow smirk, and she leans down to kiss Lexa, who lets her eyes flutter closed as she waits for Clarke’s lips to meet hers. A preemptive shiver of pleasure ripples down Lexa’s spine as she feels Clarke’s face get closer to hers, warm breath mingling between their mouths as Lexa parts her lips slightly and waits for the impact.

The obnoxious blare of Lexa’s ringtone startles them apart mere milliseconds before their lips can collide, and Lexa has never hated her phone more. Clarke pushes herself up and flops to the side with a groan that Lexa echoes as she pulls the offending gadget out of her pocket and stares at the screen.

_Anya._

“I should get this,” Lexa apologises aloud for Clarke’s benefit, though her voice is laced with resentment. She taps the green icon to accept the call, then holds the phone up to her ear and barks out, “What?”

“Ouch!” replies Anya. “What’s crawled into your knickers?”

Lexa’s cheeks burn as her mind immediately drifts to thinking about she wishes was inside her underwear, namely Clarke’s hand, and she growls, “Nothing, thanks to you.”

“Okaaay,” says Anya, drawing out the word, and Lexa can hear the smile on Anya’s face. “Ignoring the fact that I’ve _obviously_ interrupted something, the security has just gone down.”

“It has?” asks Lexa, pushing herself into an upright seated position.

Beside her, Clarke, who is smoothing out her hair, glances up suddenly and shoots Lexa a questioning glance. Lexa simply nods to non-verbally communicate to her what Anya has just told her over the phone.

“Uh huh,” answers Anya. “Cameras, alarms, everything. The guards in the security office are losing their shit.”

“And where is our target?” asks Lexa, deliberately avoiding mentioning Ontari by name while Clarke is right next to her. “Is she moving in on the White House?”

“She’s staying exactly where she is,” says Anya in disbelief. “Unless she’s left her phone where she was lurking as a decoy. But I’m pretty sure that she hasn’t moved.”

“Then what the fuck is she up to?”

“Not a clue,” answers Anya. “I’m listening into the office but they’re saying nothing helpful. Just swearing a lot and trying to get the security back online as soon as possible. Oh, and they’ve just alerted the President.”

“Fuck,” breathes out Lexa. “So this is all for nothing? We’re still no closer to knowing what’s going on?”

Lexa startles slightly as Clarke’s hand reaches out to touch hers, a gesture of comfort as she listens into Lexa’s half of the conversation with Anya. Smiling gratefully, Lexa gives Clarke’s fingers a little squeeze in response, though Clarke’s face remains etched with concern.

“Unless you think you could hack into the security while it’s down?” Anya suggests to Lexa.

“I’ve only got my phone on me,” says Lexa. “It would be much easier with a laptop.”

“You could use mine,” pipes up Clarke.

Lexa lowers her phone from her ear slightly and shakes her head at Clarke, before she says, “No, you’ve done too much already. We don’t have time to cover our tracks and if they link it back to you, then you could get into way too much trouble.”

“I don’t mind,” Clarke tries to protest.

“No,” says Lexa, resolutely shaking her head, though she does squeeze Clarke’s fingers again to show her appreciation for the offer. Lifting the phone to her ear again, Lexa speaks to Anya once more, “I can try and get in using my phone, but you know I’m not as good at this stuff as you. And I refuse to let Clarke get into any kind of trouble.”

Lexa expects some kind of rebuttal from Anya, an accusation of putting a girl above the mission at worst and an uttering of “gay” at best, but instead she gets a surprise.

“I agree entirely,” says Anya. “She’s already way too involved. Give it a go on your phone. I’ll keep watch on our mark and follow her as soon as she makes a move. Where she goes next could tell us everything.”

“Or nothing,” adds Lexa, grimacing at the thought of another failed attempt at getting to the bottom of these mysterious security breaches. It feels a lot like the universe is throwing every obstacle it can at them, and Lexa’s knee twinges unhelpfully with the thought.

But the universe isn’t done raising its middle finger at them. There’s a knock on Clarke’s bedroom door, quickly followed by a voice calling out.

“Clarke, honey, can I come in?”

Clarke’s eyes go wide, and she hisses, “Shit, my mom!”

Lexa nearly drops her phone when she realises that Abby Griffin - the bloody _President_ \- is outside the door, and she whispers into her phone, “Sorry Anya, got to go!”

Anya only gets a few words into her protest about being in the middle of a very important mission before Lexa hangs up on her and drops the phone onto Clarke’s bed.

“Anya overheard the security guys saying that they alerted your mum to the breach,” Lexa tells Clarke urgently. “What if she think it’s me? You have to admit, it’s pretty coincidental that it goes down within half an hour of me arriving.”

Clarke has closed the gap between them in an instant, her hands darting out to untuck Lexa’s shirt from the belted waistband of her trousers, then loosens the tie at her collar and pops open the top button. The result is that Lexa ends up looking a little bit like a dishevelled schoolboy, but when Clarke musses up first her own hair, then Lexa’s, Lexa realises that maybe the dishevelled look is exactly what she’s going for.

“We need to look like we’ve been making out,” explains Clarke, checking her own reflection in the mirror as she starts to artfully rumple up her own clothing. “If she thinks we’ve been getting it on then there’s no way she can suspect you’ve got anything to do with the security going down.”

And then, with absolutely no warning at all, Clarke surges forward and plants her lips on Lexa’s.

It’s one of the weirdest kisses Lexa’s ever experienced and certainly nothing like how she hoped her next kiss with Clarke might be like. Because the way that Clarke’s lips move against her own is nothing like how lips should move in a kiss, and it is only when Clarke pulls back after three terribly awkward seconds, leaving a sticky residue on and around Lexa’s mouth, does Lexa realise that Clarke wasn’t actually trying to kiss her, but instead smear her lip gloss over Lexa’s lips to make it seem like they’ve been caught in the middle of a heated makeout session.

“Come in!”

The door slowly swings open and Abby’s head tentatively peers into the room, settling on the two girls that stand there in dishevelled clothes. And they may not have been up to anything, not in _that_ way at least, but Lexa still feels like she’s been caught doing something that she shouldn’t be doing. Lexa’s heart pounds in her chest and when she lifts one of her hands to wipe at the uncomfortable smear of lip gloss around her mouth, she feels Abby’s eyes on her and knows exactly what Abby thinks has been going.

“Hi girls,” says Abby, her cheeks turning a little bit pink at the thought of interrupting the two girls. “One of the alarm systems went down so I thought I’d check one of you two hadn’t accidentally done something while trying to get on the WiFi.”

“Mom, that’s not how computers work,” says Clarke, playing the part well with a perfectly executed roll of the eyes.

“And I can see you’re up to other things too,” says Abby, her eyes flickering across to Lexa, before returning to Clarke and giving her daughter a knowing look. “I don’t think I need to tell your dad about this.”

Lexa feels her cheeks burn in embarrassment, even though she has nothing to feel shame about. In a way, it’s almost worse having Abby think that Lexa and Clarke have been up to things that they haven’t, rather than having her walking in and actually interrupting them.

“Mom, I’m an adult,” whines Clarke. “Dad probably already knows exactly what I get up to with my girlfriend in the privacy of my own room.”

“Clarke!” scolds Abby, though she grimaces and is quick to back out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Well that was fairly mortifying,” comments Clarke, shaking her head and laughing awkwardly under her breath.

“Oh god,” groans Lexa, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting her head in her hands. “The President of the United States thinks I’m doing it with her daughter. I can’t get arrested for that, can I? I think I’d rather she thought I was hacking her government.”

Lexa’s brain feels like a powerful piece of machinery that has just been switched on, slowly whirring into life as the engines start up and the lights switch on.

“Wait,” she says suddenly. “Hacking the government.”

Lexa reaches for her phone and calls Anya, impatiently drumming her fingers against her thigh as she listens to it ring.

“Hello?”

“Anya, she’s hacking the government!” says Lexa, practically exploding with urgency the very moment she hears Anya’s voice.

“Who, Ontari?”

“You know how you asked if I’d be able to hack the systems while they’re trying to get it back online?” asks Lexa. “What if that’s what she’s doing? You said they were losing their shit in the security office. Well I’d bet they’re so focused on getting it all up and running again that they wouldn’t notice somebody hacking their computers.”

Anya pauses, then says, “You know what, I think you’re probably right. We just assumed she’d be trying to break in when the security is down but they’d be on high alert for that. I think it’s just a distraction. The question is, what does she want inside the US government computer system?”

“Are you kidding?” asks Lexa, with a laugh. “Can you imagine the kind of things you’d get access to if you hacked into the US government? The amount of sensitive data there must be on there?”

“Okay,” concedes Anya. “Let me rephrase - what does the former princess of Azgeda want in the US government computer systems?”

“I don’t have a clue.”


	8. Chapter 8

The security goes back online not too long afterwards and Anya hangs up, her parting words being a promise to keep tracking Ontari for the rest of the night, following her when she leaves her hideout not too far from the White House.

Which leaves Lexa alone with Clarke again. Lexa knows that she can’t leave the White House yet - she hasn’t been here long enough to not arouse suspicion by leaving - so Clarke suggests watching something, wirelessly connecting her laptop to the television on the wall and pulling up some episodes of a strange American cooking show that is way more intense and competitive than its British counterparts.

Still wearing her shirt, untucked and open at the collar from earlier with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her suit trousers, Lexa kicks off her shoes and loosens the knot of her tie. Clarke, meanwhile, changes into a pair of sweatpants for comfort.

They sit side by side on Clarke’s bed, slightly too close to be friendly but too far apart for it to be intimate. Instead, it just feels a little bit awkward, the backs of their hands touching but neither one of them actually makes the move to intertwine their fingers. Lexa wants to reach across and drape her arm around Clarke’s shoulder, but that feels too coupley for somebody she still barely knows. And she also kind of wants to climb into Clarke’s lap and let the television stay forgotten as they explore each other in the ways that Lexa’s brain dares to fantasise about, but she doesn’t want to get into something and end up having Anya call her again and interrupt her in a much more compromising position than before.

Not kissing Clarke when she wants to do nothing else is frustrating, but not as frustrating as it would be to start something that she then can’t finish.

And thankfully, Clarke doesn’t try to pull any moves on Lexa either. Instead, she diverts the conversation towards anything that will keep the mood as far from sexy as possible.

“So she’s a woman, huh?” asks Clarke, keeping her eyes trained on the television screen across the room. “Our mystery government hacker is a woman?”

“It’s 2021, Clarke,” teases Lexa. “Women can be evil too.”

“Stop that,” says Clarke, prodding Lexa’s leg with her big toe. “Don’t pull the feminism card on me. My mom is the first female President - I know that women can be whatever they want to be.”

“Just making sure,” says Lexa. “It would be a bit of a dealbreaker if you weren’t pro-women.”

“I’m very pro-women,” says Clarke, rolling slightly on her side to look at Lexa. “Because I’m a feminist and also gay as fuck. Like totally bi, but gay as fuck.”

Lexa is ready to forget about her internal promise not to kiss Clarke, to forget about the mission, to forget about Anya and Ontari and stopping something potentially terrible from happening to the President and everything that isn’t Clarke, and starts leaning in for a kiss.

But true to form, Lexa’s phone goes off with a text alert the second the thought even pops into her mind.

“Sorry,” apologises Lexa, pulling back before she can get close enough to actually press her lips to Clarke’s and checking her phone.

The message is from Anya, telling Lexa that Ontari has left the building she’s been camping in for the last few hours and that Anya is going to follow her to wherever she goes next.

“I don’t think I like your phone very much,” says Clarke.

“Me neither,” agrees Lexa, putting the phone down and turning to look at Clarke again. Once more overcome by the urge to kiss Clarke, Lexa has to remind herself that giving into temptation is pretty much asking for Anya to interrupt them again, and she says, “But I am technically at work right now. I don’t want to get into something I can’t finish.”

Clarke nods, though disappointment is evident in her eyes, and then says, “I understand.”

“Can I … we could …” Lexa sighs, unable to get her words, then shuffles a little closer to Clarke on the bed and puts her arm around Clarke’s shoulder. “Is this okay?”

Clarke leans into Lexa’s side, resting her head on Lexa’s shoulder as she folds her legs underneath her, cuddling into Lexa as she says, “Yeah, this is good.”

* * *

They’ve almost finished watching a second episode of Cutthroat Kitchen when Lexa’s phone finally rings with an update from Anya.

“Hello?”

“Are you still with Clarke?” says Anya, the moment Lexa answers her phone.

“Yes, I am,” says Lexa, her eyes flickering down to where Clarke sits tucked against her side,“What’s going on?”

“Ontari has just made an interesting phonecall,” says Anya. “I’ll tell you all about it, but I don’t want you to react to it in front of Clarke.”

Lexa retrieves her arm from around Clarke’s shoulder and swings her legs to the side so that she can slip off the bed, gesturing to Clarke that she’s just going into the hallway outside the bedroom for some privacy and receiving a nod of understanding in response.

“Okay, I’m alone,” says Lexa, once she has closed the door behind her. “What’s happened with Ontari?”

Lexa can’t help but have flashbacks to the last time she was alone in the corridors of the White House, and she hopes that no guards armed with tasers decide to walk her way in the next few minutes.

“She phoned her mother,” Anya tells Lexa. “Nia, the old Queen of Azgeda. She mentioned some files. Her exact words were, “I’ve got everything I need”. I think she used the chaos of the security breach to make copies of government files onto her computer. I’m sitting in the bar at her hotel trying to hack into her laptop right now to find out what she’s taken but she’s encrypted it all pretty well.”

“Shit,” breathes out Lexa. “Whatever it is, it’s not going to be good news.”

“There’s more,” says Anya, piquing Lexa’s intrigue.

“Oh?”

“She mentioned a gala dinner, said that she’s ready to go ahead with the dinner. I did some digging and there’s a dinner happening on Saturday night to celebrate the Green Planet Initiative. You know, that climate change agreement that’s been on the news recently? Abby Griffin is the one heading it. I think it’s her first major project as President. Anyway, I managed to get a copy of the guest list and there’s some names that are of interest to us.”

Lexa paces up and down outside Clarke’s door, gripping her phone up to her ear like dropping it could cost somebody their life, as she says, “Go on.”

“Well firstly,” says Anya, “Ontari and Nia Azgeda aren’t on the list. But Nia’s son Roan _is_.”

Lexa frowns, recalling the research she did on the Azgeda family, and an image of a bearded man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail swims to the front of her brain.

“Okay, who else?” asks Lexa.

“The people you’d expect,” replies Anya. “The President and her husband. Vice President Marcus Kane. The British Prime Minister and the other heads of state for the countries involved in the initiative. But most importantly for us, Clarke Griffin and a plus one.”

An ugly beast of jealousy stirs within Lexa’s gut, clawing away at her insides, and she tries to will it to lay dormant again, reminding herself that Clarke isn’t even hers to feel jealous over.

“Who is the plus one?” asks Lexa, trying not to seem too curious or let the envy show in her voice.

“There’s no name,” answers Anya. “It just says ‘plus one’. I did some investigating and Raven says Clarke mentioned possibly taking her but I’ve given Raven a better offer for Saturday night so that place is open again. You need to get her to ask you.”

Lexa lets out a sigh. As pleased as she is that Clarke doesn’t have a definitive plus one for the gala dinner, her heart starts to thump in her chest, pumping blood around her body so hard that she’s pretty sure she can hear each thud through her ears. She doesn’t even know how to go about subtly persuading Clarke to invite her to the dinner. It would probably be easy if Clarke was just some girl, but she isn’t, and the personal investment of feelings that Lexa has in Clarke makes any idea she has just feel like deception.

But asking Clarke outright if she can invite Lexa to the dinner feels wrong too. Clarke is already far too involved in this mission for Lexa’s liking and has already put too much on the line by inviting Lexa into the White House and helping her to get this far. Lexa doesn’t want to get Clarke into any more trouble than necessary, but she also doesn’t want to have to use Clarke again. She is already worried that Clarke is going to think that Lexa is only interested in her because she can use her for the mission, and asking Clarke if she can attend the gala dinner with her feels like stepping over the boundary between Clarke being somebody that Lexa actually likes, and Clarke being just another mark for a mission.

And Anya picks up on Lexa’s dilemma.

“Lexa, I know you like this girl but she’s a mark, okay?” says Anya, trying to coax Lexa away from the decision that her heart wants to make and towards the logical path that will help them to succeed in a mission that just keeps putting up walls for them to climb over. “Switch your brain on, go out and do your thing like I know you can, and get what we need from her. Sleep with her if you have to.”

“Anya,” warns Lexa, knowing already that if she does end up sleeping with Clarke, she’s pretty sure to be halfway in love with the girl already.

“Go get her, ladykiller.”

Anya hangs up and Lexa lets out a sigh, before returning to Clarke’s bedroom and closing the door softly behind her.

“All okay?” asks Clarke, glancing up when Lexa reenters the room.

“Just Anya giving me another update,” Lexa answers evasively. “It’s all out of my hands now. For tonight, at least. Our part is done.”

Lexa deliberately emphasises their shared involvement, as grateful as she is for the invaluable help that Clarke has given her tonight.

“You know, I really can’t thank you enough for helping me tonight,” adds Lexa, sitting down on the edge of Clarke’s bed and reaching out to rest an appreciative hand on Clarke’s leg. “We wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”

“Anything to help,” shrugs Clarke, playing it off like it’s nothing, though Lexa can appreciate the trouble that Clarke has risked getting herself into by lying to her parents just to smuggle somebody that she hardly knows into the White House security office.

“I know that tonight was work for me,” continues Lexa, with Anya’s voice in her mind chanting ‘ _go get her_ ’ on repeat, “but it was also really nice to spend some more time with you. I’d really like to take you out to dinner later this week as a thank you for your help tonight.”

Clarke regards Lexa hesitantly, eyebrows slightly furrowed, then she asks, “As a thank you or as a date?”

“Both?” answers Lexa.

Clarke’s face cracks into a slow smile, and she asks, “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is good for me,” nods Lexa, internally sighing in relief.

“And are you staying tonight?” asks Clarke.

Lexa feels something lurch low in her abdomen, particularly when Clarke’s teeth dig into her lower lip. She hadn’t really considered the possibility of staying over with Clarke tonight and instead had just assumed that she would return to her own hotel as soon as the need for her to be in the White House was gone. Now there is a very _different_ need for Lexa to be here, one that is entirely physical, and if she doesn’t do something to stop it then she knows it will overrule any rationality that her brain put forward.

“You want me to?” asks Lexa, hardly even daring to hope that Clarke’s answer might be a yes.

“Do you even need to ask?” comes Clarke’s elusive reply, though the hunger in her eyes gives Lexa all the answer that she needs.

Lexa lets her own eyes flutter closed and she tilts her head backwards, taking in a shaky breathe and then exhaling again.

“Clarke, I want to…”

“But you’re not going to,” Clarke finishes Lexa’s sentence for her, voice laced with disappointment.

Lexa opens her eyes again to find Clarke still watching her, but with sadness in her eyes.

“I’m trying to do the right thing by taking you out on a date first,” Lexa tries to explain.

“Fuck the right thing,” shrugs Clarke, pushing herself up from where she’s been leaning back against the headboard of the bed. She sits cross-legged next to Lexa and reaches out to take Lexa’s hand in her own. “I want you to stay.”

“Clarke, if I stay, then I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself around you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” answers Clarke, a flash of something dangerous crossing her eyes as she smiles suggestively at Lexa.

Lexa swallows and forces herself to glance away. She does it for her own sanity, but the action is enough for Clarke to retract her hand from where it sits in Lexa’s and shuffle back a little on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” apologises Clarke. “I shouldn’t be pushing you. It’s wrong of me to pressure you into something that you don’t…”

Unable to control herself any longer, Lexa gets onto her knees on the mattress and crawls the remaining distance to Clarke, cupping Clarke’s jaw with one hand while her lips swoop in for a kiss. She cuts Clarke off mid-sentence, who lets out a little gasp of surprise, then moans appreciatively against Lexa’s mouth. Clarke’s fingers find Lexa’s tie and use it to draw her closer, until Lexa’s body is practically covering Clarke’s, with one of Clarke’s thighs on either side of Lexa’s hips.

It’s the kiss that Lexa has been dreaming about since she first met Clarke almost a week ago during her first mission into the White House. And yes, it may not be their first kiss, but in the privacy of Clarke’s room, without the worry of being spotted kissing the President’s daughter or even having to keep the kiss appropriate for a public place, Lexa gets to kiss Clarke in a way that is hotter than before, _filthier_ than before. Her hand travels down Clarke’s side and stops at her waist, clawing at the soft skin there even through the thin material of Clarke’s top, anchoring her down as her mouth moves against Clarke’s.

Clarke kisses back with enthusiasm, hands trailing down Lexa’s back until they rest on Lexa’ships, finger splaying out low. Lexa wants to rock her hips forward, knowing that her position between Clarke’s legs is probably going to bring them both a little bit of friction where they need it, and refrains only because she knows that if she does, then she definitely won’t be leaving this room anytime soon. Instead, she distracts herself with Clarke’s mouth, varying the pressure and the movement of her lips as she licks into Clarke’s mouth, then scrapes her teeth lightly against Clarke’s upper lip.

It draws or another moan from Clarke’s throat, the vibrations thrumming in her chest and spilling past her lips, only to be swallowed by Lexa’s mouth. Lexa bums in response, her lips curling up into the smallest of smiles as she kisses, and her fingers dig into Clarke’s waits just that little bit more, not wanting to ever let her go.

The same thought must cross Clarke’s mind, because her hands tighten on Lexa’s hips, then she mumbles into Lexa’s mouth, “Does this mean you’re staying?”

Lexa pulls back from the kiss with great reluctance, sweeping her hair out of her face with the hand not on Clarke’s waist.

“I want to stay,” she tells Clarke. “But you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow. Let me wine and dine you first, and then if you’re still interested, I’ll give you a night you won’t forget.”

Clarke’s head slumps back against the pillow and she lets out an almighty groan of displeasure.

“God, Lexa, you can’t say things like that and then leave.”

Lexa disentangles herself from Clarke’s limbs, carefully removing her body from on top of Clarke and resuming her seated position on the edge of the bed. Her clothes are more rumpled than before, her cheeks more flushed, and her heart pounds in her chest so hard that she can hear the blood rushing as it pumps through her ears.

“I’m trying to keep up an aura of intrigue,” she shrugs, smiling slyly at Clarke. “It’s all part of being a secret agent.”

“An aura of sexual frustration,” replies Clarke.

Bending down to pick up the shoes that she left on the floor by the bed, Lexa shoots back, “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“You’re making a lot of promises that I hope you can keep.”

“I’m a woman of my word, Clarke,” says Lexa, slipping her left foot into its shoe and tying the lace.

“I like the way you say my name,” comments Clarke.

Pausing midway through putting on her second shoe, Lexa sits up straight and frowns at Clarke, Lexa says, “Clarke? Am I saying it wrong?”

“Your accent, I mean,” explains Clarke. “ _Clah-rke_.” Clarke mimics the way that Lexa says her name, extending the vowel and pretty much eliminating the letter ‘r’ altogether. “Very British. Turns me on a bit.”

This last bit is accompanied by a sly smirk, and Lexa has to quickly glance away and focus her attention back on the lacing up of her shoe, just to stop herself from throwing herself at Clarke mouth-first for a second time.

“Stop it,” Lexa scolds Clarke, rolling her eyes as she triumphs over knotting the second shoelace. “I’m going.”

“Why go when you can _come_?”

“Clarke!” exclaims Lexa, getting to her feet and rolling down her sleeves, now crinkled from hours of being folded up to her elbows. She reaches for the jacket that she discarded when she arrived and slips her arms into the sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” apologises Clarke. “Go. Quick, before I lock the doors and you have to stay.”

“Walk me to the car?” asks Lexa, arching an eyebrow at Clarke.

“Do I get another kiss if I do?” asks Clarke, though she doesn’t wait for an answer, instead getting up off the bed and sliding her feet into a pair of slip-on shoes.

Lexa pretends to be annoyed and rolls her eyes, though the smile that graces her lips tells the opposite story, and she extends her hand out to Clarke to be held. Clarke immediately locks their fingers together and grins as she presses herself into Lexa’s side, and for a moment it almost feels like they _are_ the happily-loved up couple that they’re pretending to be, far more than two almost-lovers navigating the tricky early stages of a new relationship.

“So, dinner tomorrow night,” says Clarke, as they leave her room and step out into the carpeted hallway. “What should I wear?”

“Whatever you want to wear,” shrugs Lexa. “You could wear a bin bag and I’d still be attracted to you.”

“It’d certainly be easy for you to rip off,” grins Clarke. “Though I do have a new dress that I think you might like. You’ll text me the place when you’ve decided where we’re going?”

“Of course,” nods Lexa.

“Do you want me to send a car for you again?”

As they descend the stairs, Lexa shakes her head and answers, “I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m excited,” confesses Clarke, grinning across at Lexa. “After that night in the bar, I thought that you’d leave the country and that I’d probably never see you again. But here we are, planning a date.”

Lexa is excited too, as well as a little bit nervous at the prospect of taking Clarke out on a dinner, but those feelings conceal something else, a certain unease at the whole situation. As nice as it is to pretend that everything else isn’t going on so that they can just enjoy the date tomorrow night and get to know each other as they would normally, Lexa can’t shake the feeling that this is all going to be temporary, that regardless of whether she and Anya can get to the bottom of what Ontari Azgeda is up to, there is no future in which Clarke can become a permanent part of her life. Because at some point, Lexa will have to go back to England, and then she’ll get sent away on another dangerous mission and have to leave the memories of her time with Clarke behind.

She tries not to let the negativity overwhelm her and forces a smile onto her face.

“I can’t wait either,” Lexa admits honestly.

When they step through the front door to find a car waiting outside ready to take Lexa back to her hotel, the sky is dark and the air is chilly. Clarke, wearing only a thin t-shirt, shivers beside Lexa and clings tighter to Lexa’s side.

“Do you want my jacket?” asks Lexa, ready to slip her arms out of the sleeves and drape the jacket over Clarke’s shoulders, despite it belonging to one of her favourite suits - a sacrifice that she is more than willing to make for Clarke.

Clarke shakes her head and comes to a standstill, dropping Lexa’s hand so that she can seek out Lexa’s hips with her fingers, using them to draw Lexa’s body closer to her own.

“I can think of something else that will keep me warm…”

With no further warning, Clarke leans forward and presses her lips to Lexa’s. The hands on Lexa’s hips steer Lexa backwards until her back hits the car, then they move to trap her against the side of the vehicle, not that Lexa wants to complain. She digs her own fingers into the fabric of Clarke’s top, pulling Clarke closer. Clarke smiles against Lexa’s lips when Lexa kisses her back, then shifts her legs so that one of her thighs is slotted between Lexa’s, swiping her tongue filthily against the seam of Lexa’s lips. Lexa feels as though she is merely along for the ride, her body completely at Clarke’s whim as she tries to kiss Clarke back with all her might and ignores the ache that begins to grow between her thighs.

There’s something thrilling about being kissed like this so out in the open, about feeling Clarke’s tongue in her mouth and Clarke’s body pressed up as close as it can get to her own and knowing that all it would take is one twitch of a curtain upstairs for Abby and Jake Griffin to be able to see exactly what their daughter is getting up to with Lexa against the side of a presidential car. Lexa never knew that she had a voyeuristic streak, but there’s a small part of her that like the idea of being caught, likes the idea of somebody seeing them like this and knowing that Clarke wants _her_ , of all people.

Yet when they are disturbed by the clearing of a throat nearby, Lexa realises that the reality of being caught in a compromising position is not as glamorous as the idea.

Clarke drags her lips away from Lexa’s with a reluctant groan, and they both turn to find the driver of the car looking at them through the open passenger side window.

“I should go,” mumbles Lexa. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Clarke presses one final kiss to Lexa’s lips, then takes a step back.

“Text me when you get back,” she says. “And let me know what the plan is for tomorrow.”

Nodding her assent, Lexa opens the car’s back door and bends down to climb inside, taking a seat on the black leather seats. Before she closes the door, she glances up at Clarke once more.

“Thank you,” she says.

Clarke grins, and then in a reminder of their conversation back in Clarke’s bedroom earlier, says, “You can thank me tomorrow.”

* * *

Lexa is having a fashion _disaster_.

The main problem - and it’s quite a problem to have - is that she brought too many clothes with her to America but none of them seem like the right thing to wear for her date with Clarke. It’s like she suddenly doesn’t have a clue about fashion, and even some of her tried and tested outfits now look like she’s put them together whilst wearing a blindfold.

Naturally, Lexa does the only thing that she ever does when she’s having a meltdown, and asks for Anya’s help.

“I’ve got no clothes,” says Lexa, opening the door of her hotel room to admit her best friend without so much as a greeting.

Anya steps inside and immediately stops, because Lexa’s hotel room is strewn with potential outfits - across the bed, hanging out of the open wardrobe, dumped on the floor.

“Are you mad?” asks Anya exasperatedly. “This room is nothing but clothes.”

“Okay,” concedes Lexa with a nod, “but I can’t wear any of them to see Clarke. The only tie that looks good on me is this one,” Lexa plucks the red tie she wore to the White House last night out from underneath a pair of trousers on the bed and holds it aloft, continuing, “but Clarke has already seen me in this and I can’t have her thinking I’m the kind of woman who only owns one tie. And I could go the other way and wear a dress but I know that Clarke likes me in a suit and I don’t want to disappoint.”

Lexa picks up the only dress she brought with her to the States, still on its hanger, and holds it up against her body as she stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. It’s a nice dress - navy blue with lace sleeves - but it also doesn’t seem to be the right thing to wear.

“No,” says Anya, snatching the dress out of Lexa’s hand and hanging it back up inside the wardrobe. “You’d look good in most things and to be honest, I’m pretty sure Clarke will swoon whatever you wear, but that dress isn’t you. This is a mission, remember?”

“But it’s also _Clarke_ ,” whines Lexa.

“Let’s just stop being such a wet blanket,” says Anya, giving Lexa a stern look, and Lexa immediately recoils and hangs her head in shame, lips pouting ever so slightly. “Okay, good. Now, forget about Clarke. What would you wear if your mark was anybody but her? Find the outfit for me.”

Lexa roots around in the mess of clothes around her room, holding up various garments against each other to test which ones match. She eventually settles on an outfit that worked on a mark in Edinburgh few months ago - a dark blazer, grey tailored trousers, a white collared shirt, and a blue tie.

“Great,” says Anya, nodding happily. “Now put it on.”

“Anya.”

“Do it,” says Anya. “Or I’ll strip you naked and dress you myself.”

Lexa grimaces, only half-convinced that Anya’s threat is a joke, and does as she is told. She strips down to her underwear, unfazed by Anya’s presence in the room, and carefully redresses in the new outfit. Lexa is as meticulous as ever while she dresses, letting her sleeves sit perfectly at her wrists, then knotting her tie on the first attempt and checking its length in the mirror, before she slips her arms into the jacket of her suit and buttons it up at the front.

Already, Lexa feels a little bit more self-assured and wonders why she let herself get worked up into a state of panic in the first place.

“Right,” says Anya, stepping forward to scrutinise Lexa’s outfit and reaching out with one hand to smooth the lapel of Lexa’s blazer. “You’re Lancelot, ready to seduce a mark, okay?”

Lexa isn’t entirely comfortable with that line of talk, not with the way that her heart is hammering against her ribcage at the mere thought of taking Clarke out for dinner, but she tentatively nods anyway, feeling slightly more prepared now that she’s dressed the part too.

“But Clarke isn’t just a mark, is she? So how about we compromise a little bit? Take off the tie.”

Lexa frowns at Anya’s newest order, wondering why she would tell Lexa to dress up, only to immediately have her undress again, but she does as instructed regardless. Reaching up to her collar, Lexa loosens the knot of her tie and takes it off, throwing the tie onto the bed with one hand while she flicks open her top button with the other.

“How does that look?” asks Anya, steering Lexa so that she’s standing in front of the mirror again.

Lexa admires her own appearance, and while she likes the way that she looks, like the cut of the suit and the colour of the jacket, there’s still something not quite right. Still something that makes her look like a businesswoman on a Friday afternoon and not a secret agent off to seduce the President’s daughter.

Anya must sense Lexa’s hesitancy too, because she steps between Lexa and the mirror and undoes another button, carefully adjusting the open collar of Lexa’s shirt until she’s satisfied. When Anya steps out of the way, Lexa’s eyes widen at the amount of skin that Anya’s tiny adjustment has just revealed, exaggerating the long lines of Lexa’s neck and revealing just a glimpse of sharp collarbones.

“And that?” asks Anya.

“I…” starts Lexa, so taken aback by how quickly Anya has taken her from having a breakdown to feeling semi-confident about the way that she looks. “I look kind of hot.”

“Kind of?” scorns Anya. “Clarke will take one look at you and drop her knickers.”

Lexa opens her mouth to protest but she can’t get any words out before one of Anya’s arms has made its way around her neck and pulled her into a weird half-hug.

“Go and get your girl.”

* * *

With Kingsman footing the bill, Lexa chooses the swankiest restaurant she can get a last minute reservation at, and asks for a private table while she’s at it. As a secret agent who often relies on discretion, the very last thing she needs is for her face to be plastered across tabloids around the world. Becoming internationally known as the woman who wined and dined the daughter of the American President isn’t going to do Lexa any favours in future missions.

Clarke turns up in a white dress that clings to every curve and that has a tantalising slit across her chest that Lexa can’t seem to keep her eyes away from. Clarke steps out of the sleek black car looking like a glamour model and her eyes light up when they fall on Lexa, and it’s a wonder that Lexa’s knees don’t give way and send her crashing to the floor with giddiness.

Instead, Lexa gapes at Clarke like a lovestruck teenager, and barely manages to present Clarke with the single rose she went out and bought especially for this date like every romantic cliche from Hollywood.

“You look stunning,” says Lexa, greeting Clarke with a kiss on the cheek.

“As do you,” says Clarke, stepping back to admire Lexa’s outfit. One of her hands reaches out to touch the collar of Lexa’s shirt and she says, “I was a big fan of the tie you wore last night but I think I like this look even more.”

Lexa, who has never been particularly good at receiving compliments, blushes at Clarke’s words and distracts herself by winding an arm around Clarke’s waist and guiding her towards the restaurant.

“This place is swish,” says Clarke, impressed by the restaurant as they step inside and get led to their table.

The table, just as Lexa hoped, is slightly secluded from the main body of the restaurant, with high partitions separating it from nearby tables, and Lexa hopes that the small amount of privacy will allow her to turn the charm up to the max and win Clarke’s affection. Eager to impress, Lexa pulls out Clarke’s chair before she moves to the other side of the table to take her own seat.

“You’re completely unlike the people I usually date,” says Clarke, once they’ve chosen a bottle of wine and the waiter has disappeared to bring it to them.

“In a good way?” asks Lexa.

“Definitely,” smiles Clarke. “I have a history of going for people who are either emotionally unavailable or just complete dickheads.”

Lexa ignores the nagging part of her brain that tries to tell her that a case could probably be made to argue that she fits into both of those categories.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve broken form,” says Lexa. “I have to admit, I was really nervous about asking you out.”

“You were?” asks Clarke, her eyes softening. “I find that hard to believe. I don’t think I’ve given you particularly mixed signals.”

Lexa blushes at the memory of last night, of a night of flirtation and the unforgettable parting kiss that Clarke gave her.

“Maybe not,” concedes Lexa. “But there was a part of me wondering if it was all in my head.”

“Even spies can be lesbian cliches, huh?” grins Clarke.

The waiter returns with a bottle of red, which he presents to Lexa with the label up, checking her approval. She gestures across the table to Clarke and then says, “It’s the lady’s choice. She can taste it.”

Expertly removing the cork, the waiter pours a drop of wine into Clarke’s glass with one hand tucked neatly behind his back, then waits for Clarke to try it. Clarke shoots Lexa a wide-eyed look that reads mixed amusement and panic, and Lexa laughs softly at the realisation that a normal twenty-year-old college student is probably experiencing this type of fine dining for one of the first times ever.

“Very nice,” Clarke tells the waiter, once she has taken a tiny sip.

Lexa watches as the waiter tops up Clarke’s glass, then fills Lexa’s, before placing the bottle on the table between them and leaving so that they can have a chance to peruse the menu.

“I don’t have a clue what I was supposed to be tasting it for,” Clarke admits, erupting into soft laughter as soon as the waiter is out of earshot. “I mean, it doesn’t burn my throat in the same way as the cheap bottles I normally buy at the grocery store, which is good. And it had a cork instead of a screw cap so it must be more expensive too.”

“I took a wine-tasting class once,” muses Lexa, remembering some of the strange lengths she went to at the beginning of her Kingsman career in an attempt to become more sophisticated. “Still can’t tell the difference between different types. Whiskey, on the other hand…”

“Of course you’re a whiskey drinker,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes. “Let me guess, you own a smoking jacket too and have a collection of cigars?”

“No, but I do own a tweed suit.”

“God,” rasps Clarke in a low voice. “I’m so attracted to you right now.”

Lexa feels herself start to blush and she reaches for her drink, taking a sip to cool down.

“Okay, so you’ve heard all about me and my adventures in espionage,” says Lexa, swiftly changing the subject before she gets too flustered, “but I want to get to know you. Tell me something I don’t already know. A story, or something.”

Clarke frowns, deep in thought, then says, “Okay, so in my junior year of high school I got suspended for two days.”

Lexa almost chokes on her drink, shocked that America’s darling could ever find herself in a spot of trouble.

“Oh, wow. So you’re secretly a rebel?”

“Hardly,” scoffs Clarke. “I was always good at school. Not top of the class, but I got decent enough grades that I could slip under the radar because the teachers would just let me get on with it. But near the end of junior year one of my friends - Harper, actually, you remember her from the bar? - got sent home because apparently her shorts were too short and were distracting the boys.”

“That’s bollocks,” says Lexa, shaking her head, though she has memories from her own school days of girls being given detentions for wearing their uniform skirts higher than the regulation knee-length.

Clarke snickers softly at Lexa’s choice of language, then nods in agreement.

“Exactly,” says Clarke. “But apparently storming into the principal’s office and telling him that sending girls home for wearing shorts in ninety degree weather instead of teaching the guys not to ogle women is sexist bullshit isn’t the best way of dealing with things.”

“So you got suspended?” Lexa concludes.

“I … I also maybe trashed the principal’s office a little bit in my rage,” adds Clarke sheepishly. “I mean, I kicked over a trash can and knocked a few pens off his desk. But he suspended me and called my mom.”

“I bet she was pissed,” smirks Lexa, reaching for her wine glass and taking a sip.

“Fuck yes she was pissed!” nods Clarke, eyes wide as she recounts the tale. “With the _principal_. She got even angrier than I did. I think the principal wanted to suspend me for a week after my rampage but after Mom yelled at him, he cut it to two days. She agreed with me entirely, of course. And she was state senator at the time, which had its benefits. By the time I returned to school, they had scrapped the part of the dress code policy that said girls couldn’t wear shorts and they started running compulsory consent classes for the boys teaching them to basically control themselves around girls.”

Impressed, Lexa muses aloud, “Not all heroes wear capes.”

“No,” agrees Clarke. “This hero went on to become President of the United States. So, that’s something new you know about me. What about you? What don’t I know about you?”

Lexa pauses for thought, scouring her brain for something new about herself. There are any number of increasingly fantastical stories that Lexa can tell about her time in Kingsman, each guaranteed to impress Clarke. But Lexa would rather tell Clarke something about _her_ , something stupid and trivial that she would tell a girl she was trying to get to know on a first date.

“I have a dog,” blurts out Lexa.

“You do?” asks Clarke, eyes widening in surprise.

Lexa reaches into her inside jacket pocket and takes out her phone, opening up the photo gallery and scrolling through until she finds the series of pictures she’s looking for.

“His name is Maxwell,” says Lexa, turning her phone to show Clarke a picture of her German Shepherd, tongue hanging out dopily as he stares up at the camera with wide brown eyes.

Lexa deliberately doesn’t mention how she became to own Maxwell, nor the fact that the only reason she has the job that she does is because the final part of the Kingsman recruitment test required her to point a gun at Maxwell’s head and mercilessly fire it - a gun that was thankfully loaded with blanks. Lexa can still remember how painful it was to pull that trigger, and how the relief washed through her body when Maxwell kept his life even after the gun went off.

“He is the most handsome dog I’ve ever seen!” coos Clarke, as Lexa swipes through a few more photos of Maxwell.

“He lives with my brother most of the time because I travel a lot but he’s always going to be my puppy,” Lexa tells Clarke, smiling happily at the memories of Maxwell and how excited he gets every time Lexa returns to her family home and reunites with the dog.

“I used to have a dog too,” says Clarke. “A black lab called Cleo. She was pretty much my best friend growing up but she died right before I went to college.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Lexa earnestly. She would be heartbroken if anything happened to Maxwell.

“It’s fine,” shrugs Clarke. “She was old and she had a good life. It was her time to go.”

The waiter chooses that moment to return to their table.

“Are you ladies ready to order?”

Lexa glances down at the menu and back up again, having already decided what she wants to eat, then looks to Clarke and asks, “Have you decided, babe?”

Clarke looks straight back at Lexa with blown pupils and answers, “I know exactly what I want.”

With Clarke’s eyes on her, looking at her like _that_ , Lexa gets the impression that Clarke isn’t talking about the food.

“Should I…?” stammers the waiter. “Should I give you two a moment and come back?”

Lexa clears her throat, trying to dislodge some of the sexual tension between her and Clarke, then says, “No, stay. We’re ready to order.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I’ve got this,” Lexa says to Clarke when the waiter brings over their bill.

Clarke does the polite thing and tries to protest, but Lexa locates her wallet inside her jacket and takes out her debit card.

“My dad gave me some money and told me I should split the bill with you,” says Clarke with a soft laugh. “I think that’s his weird way of saying that he approves of you.”

“I like your dad,” grins Lexa.

“He’s an idiot,” grumbles Clarke, rolling her eyes.

“All dads are,” agrees Lexa, thinking of her own, and how they can go from taking a serious phonecall from an important work colleague, to singing out of tune duets with each other whilst cooking dinner moments later, using spatulas as microphones and thoroughly embarrassing Lexa and Aden in the process.

Lexa pays quickly and takes a few spare bills out of her wallet to leave as a tip, trying to mentally work out whether her bank account can afford this dinner without passing the receipt on to Kingsman to claim as expenses, to save her conscious a little of the guilt that she feels for trying to seduce Clarke for the sake of a mission.

“So, um, how did I do?” asks Lexa, slipping her wallet back into her jacket pocket.

Clarke snorts.

“You want me to rate you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at Lexa. “Is that a British thing, rating your date? Like a Yelp review?”

“I’m sorry, I’m nervous,” explains Lexa, forcing out a shaky laugh. “I guess what I actually meant to ask was whether you’ve had a good time. And if you’ve had a good enough time to be interested in getting out of here?”

Clarke tilts her head to the side in curiosity and asks, “Like, back to your hotel?”

“If you want,” nods Lexa, her teeth chewing at her lower lip as she waits for Clarke’s response.

“Two Secret Service agents are waiting for me in a car outside, ready to take me back to the White House,” replies Clarke.

“Of course,” says Lexa, trying not to display too much disappointment at the rejection, though she can’t help but feel like maybe the date wasn’t quite as successful as she hoped, especially after the way that Clarke came onto her in the White House last night. Regardless, Lexa has to respect Clarke’s decision and so she continues, “That’s fine. I understand.”

Clarke leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. A slow smile spreads across her pretty lips, and she says in an almost whisper, “But there’s probably a staff door near the toilets that we could use to escape out back, then call an Uber or something?”

Lexa suppresses a grin, trying not to seem too eager to get Clarke back to her hotel room, though her heart is racing at a thousand beat per minute at the mere prospect.

Instead, Lexa mirrors Clarke by leaning a little closer across the table, and teases, “Isn’t running away from the American government more of a second date kind of thing?”

“I think I can make an exception for you.”

* * *

Sneaking out of the back of the restaurant is nowhere near as exciting as they thought it might be, but they still tumble into the back of the Uber that Lexa ordered for them slightly breathlessly, joined at the hand.

The journey back to Lexa’s hotel is a silent one. It’s strange really, considering how easily conversation flowed between them during dinner, but now that they’re sitting in the back of a car with absolutely no pretence about the fact that they’re going to Lexa’s room to have sex, they each sit quietly on their respective sides of the backseat, attention on their phones instead of each other.

Lexa can’t speak for Clarke, but her own reason for staying silent is a simple one. Clarke looks stunning in that dress, even more so now that Lexa’s pre-date nerves have dissipated, and knowing that any words that would leave her lips would probably be just garbled nonsense, Lexa chooses to stay quiet instead of risking saying anything that might make Clarke change her mind.

Lexa takes Clarke’s hand again when they get out of the car and enter the hotel, enjoying the feeling of Clarke’s digits laced through her own. They don’t talk much as they climb the stairs to Lexa’s hotel room, deliberately avoiding the lift because Lexa knows there’s a high chance her hands will end up beneath the hem of Clarke’s dress if they get the chance to be alone before they even reach the privacy of the hotel room. But it gets harder to resist Clarke the closer they get to Lexa’s room, and by the time they actually make it to the door, Lexa’s hand has dropped Clarke’s and her arm has snaked its way around Clarke’s waist instead, her hand splayed low on Clarke’s hip.

When Lexa’s nervous fingers fumble over the keycard, taking three attempts to press it against the card reader in the right way to unlock the door, Clarke laughs and teases Lexa, who retaliates by herding Clarke into the room the very second that she gets the door open and then pinning Clarke against the nearby wall as she kicks the door closed behind her.

“Finally,” says Clarke, her fingers ghosting over the button at the front of Lexa’s jacket without actually undoing it.

“Have you been waiting for this?” teases Lexa.

“Haven’t you?” Clarke retorts with a quick tongue.

Lexa bends her head enough to press her lips against Clarke’s, too wound up by hours of teasing to be able to wait any longer. In an ideal world, Lexa would charm Clarke with a few more deliberately disarming lines, until Clarke is a desperate mess in her arms, and _then_ she would swoop in for a kiss that is far slower than the one Clarke wants. But Lexa isn’t a character from a spy movie with superhuman abilities when it comes to seducing women, she’s a hot-blooded lesbian with a gorgeous girl in her hotel room after a dinner dripping with hungry looks and flirtatious comments.

The only consolation is that Clarke is as eager as Lexa is, opening her mouth to receive Lexa’s tongue almost immediately, while her fingers pop open the button they’ve been playing with and slide beneath the fabric of the jacket to hold Lexa’s waist, searing Lexa’s skin through the thin material of her shirt.

Feeling emboldened by the enthusiasm with which Clarke kisses back, Lexa lets her own hands drop to Clarke’s bum, cupping a cheek with each hand and palming gently.

“Naughty,” Clarke mutters against Lexa’s lips, but she gives no indication that she isn’t enjoying it, in fact quite the opposite, from the way that she pushes Lexa’s jacket off her shoulders so that it lands on the floor with a soft thud.

Clarke’s fingers find their way to Lexa’s chest, deftly popping open each button on the front of Lexa’s shirt, and Lexa, quite frankly, thinks that it’s disgraceful that Clarke is managing to strip Lexa out of her clothes while kissing back quite so filthily, while Lexa’s brain is going into overdrive and struggling to focus on one thing at once. It’s almost too overwhelming, having Clarke’s mouth on hers, and Clarke’s hands tugging at her clothes, and Clarke’s scent filling Lexa’s nostrils and clouding her brain like the fumes of an addictive drug.

That’s exactly what Clarke is though - a drug - and Lexa has never been able to get enough of her, not since they first met.

Tonight, however, Lexa thinks she might be able to get pretty close.

“Bed,” she mumbles against Clarke’s lips, steering Clarke towards the bed in the centre of the room. It’s really just an excuse to get Clarke’s back off the wall that Lexa had her pushed against so that her hands can locate the zipper at the back of Clarke’s dress and pull it down with a rasp that seems to echo around the hotel room.

By the time they make it to the bed, they’re both just in their panties. Lexa doesn’t remember having her own bra removed, and concludes that it must have happened in the five seconds it took to reset her brain following the realisation that Clarke decided to forgo a bra beneath her dress entirely.

Skin against skin feel good, legs slotting together on the bed in a way that allows Lexa to feel the obvious heat radiating from between Clarke’s legs against her own thigh, and she tugs awkwardly at the waistband of Clarke’s knickers, trying to convey the message to Clarke that she wants them gone.

“Oh, you think you’re going first, do you?” grins Clarke, pulling back from the kiss for long enough to push her own underwear down legs, throwing the skimpy garment onto the floor somewhere behind Lexa.

“I don’t see you complaining,” says Lexa, oozing with confidence now that she has a naked girl in her bed. She slides an exploratory hand down Clarke’s stomach and through short hair above the apex of Clarke’s thighs, resting her hand over Clarke’s mound without yet dipping her fingers into the warmth that she knows awaits her beyond.

“Fuck,” gasps Clarke. “I like this side of you.”

Lexa nuzzles her face into Clarke’s neck, running her lips and tongue over hot skin, as she asks, “Are you sure you want this?”

Lexa has all the physical signs in front of her that Clarke is into this and wants it to progress further, but she feels pretty unbelievably lucky to be in such a position and wants to hear Clarke’s verbal consent to, just to assure her that this is definitely happening.

“I want this. I want _you_.”

Smiling against the skin of Clarke’s neck, Lexa lets her hand dip lower, then lets out a gasp at the warmth that she encounters. She’s had both Clarke’s physical and verbal consent, but now she’s got the concrete evidence that Clarke is as into this as she is coating her fingers. Clarke’s folds are almost too slippery as Lexa slides her fingers through them, but it’s an incredible turn on to feel Clarke this way, and to have one of Clarke’s hands gripping the back of Lexa’s neck while the other reaches down to wrap around Lexa’s wrist, urging her hand into more definite movements.

Lexa isn’t going to complain. Each time her fingertips dance around Clarke’s aching clit, Clarke’s hips buck off the bed and a little whimper slips from Clarke’s throat. And Lexa wants to hear more sounds just like that one, and she wants to feel Clarke writhing beneath her, so she does it again, and again, and again until she’s painting circles around Clarke’s clit in deliberate circles, applying more pressure with each one, until Clarke is a garbling mess.

Lexa builds the pressure up like a spring, squeezing the coils closer together with each movement of her fingers until the pressure is almost too much, and Clarke explodes, her orgasm erupting with a cry from her throat like that spring leaping from between Lexa’s fingers as she squeezes it too tight.

“Fuck … Lexa …”

Clarke’s noises are almost incomprehensible, but Lexa distinguishes her own name and a few expletives in there for good measure, smiling against the now sweaty skin of Clarke’s neck as she feels Clarke’s hips twitch and buck uncontrollably while she rides out her orgasm.

“Shit,” groans Clarke, forcibly pushing Lexa’s hand away from her centre when it all becomes a bit too much. “Sorry, that was quick.”

“That’s definitely not a reason to apologise,” says Lexa, rolling slightly to the side to give Clarke some room to breathe, though she does trail her wet fingers up Clarke’s body, leaving a sticky smear of arousal over Clarke’s stomach and then over her breast. “More time for round two. I’d like to taste you, if you don’t object.”

Clarke’s eyelids flicker open, pupils dark with arousal, and she rasps, “God, even in bed you’re a gentlewoman. No, I don’t _object_. But shouldn’t I do you first?”

“You can do me later,” replies Lexa, starting her descent down Clarke’s body by sucking a red mark into the skin over Clarke’s clavicle. “As many times as you like.”

“What an offer,” snickers Clarke, though her laugh trails off into a soft moan as Lexa’s lips close around the hardened peak of her nipple.

“But for now, I’m going to go down on you.”

Lexa must have said something right because Clarke’s legs part, allowing Lexa’s body the space to slide down between them, hooking one foot over each shoulder to keep them spread as she starts to kiss and nip at the soft skin of Clarke’s stomach.

“I like how forward you - _ahhh_.”

The moan that Clarke lets out when Lexa descends further and swipes her tongue through folds that are still sensitive from her earlier ministrations is practically indecent. It’s loud too, and if Lexa weren’t in her own version of heaven, with Clarke dripping and open before her, she would perhaps feel a little bit of shame for the fact that Clarke’s moan has probably just echoed loud enough for the entire hotel - or at the very least, Anya next door - to be able to hear it.

“I like the sounds you make,” responds Lexa, lifting her mouth from Clarke’s heat so that she can talk but replacing the pressure of her tongue with fingers that probe lazily. “I could get drunk off those sou-”

One of Clarke’s feet digs into Lexa’s shoulder, cutting her off mid-sentence, and Clarke scolds Lexa huskily.

“Less talking. More doing.”

Lexa is only too happy to oblige.

Everything about Clarke is addictive. The sounds that escape her throat, the taste of her juices smeared across Lexa’s lips and chin, the way that her hand comes down to plant itself on the back of Lexa’s head to keep her exactly where she wants her - it’s all slotting together to form an experience that Lexa never wants to end.

It will have to end at some point, when Clarke has to return to her responsibilities and Lexa has to get on a plane back to England ready for the next mission. But at the very least, Lexa knows that they can have tonight to themselves, two ordinary women getting to know each other in the most intimate of ways.

Clarke hand tightening in Lexa’s hair draws Lexa out of the confines of her own messy thoughts, and she tries to let herself bask in the now, committing every tiny detail to memory, applying herself fully to the single goal of making this as pleasurable as possible for Clarke.

“Fuck. Oh God. Yes, Lexa, I’m gonna…”

* * *

Lexa wakes up happy.

It takes her a few moments to remember why, still half-asleep in the blissful warmth of her bed, but when she realises that half of that warmth is radiating from the naked body beside her own, with a single arm draped across Lexa’s bare stomach, Lexa remembers every beautiful detail of the previous night.

With her head resting on Lexa’s shoulder, tousled blonde hair cascading over Lexa’s unclothed skin and the pillows beneath their heads, Clarke is the picture of peace. Her eyes are still closed and her chest moves up and down with each slow breath that she takes in her sleep, but her lips are curled up at the corners in a miniscule smile. Lexa can’t help but press the softest of kisses to Clarke’s forehead.

She doesn’t mean to wake Clarke, but the girl in her arms stirs slightly when Lexa’s lips touch against her skin. Clarke lets out a sleepy little noise and her eyes flutter open, peering up at Lexa dazedly from beneath heavy eyelids.

“Morning, beautiful,” says Lexa, tightening her arms around Clarke to keep her close.

Clarke’s own fingers squeeze Lexa’s waist and she nuzzles her face into Lexa’s neck, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight that pours through the crack in the curtains.

“Last night feels like a dream,” mumbles Clarke, her voice husky and heavy with sleep. “I half-expected to wake up in my own bed.”

“I’m glad you’re in mine,” says Lexa.

Clarke extracts her arm from around Lexa’s middle, much to Lexa’s dismay, and rolls onto her front beside Lexa, her head propped up on her hands.

“Here I am,” pouts Clarke, “looking like a sexed-up monster, and you’re still full of smooth lines.”

Lexa reaches out with one hand to sweep a stray lock of wild hair out of Clarke’s face.

“Prettiest monster I’ve ever seen,” Lexa tells Clarke.

Clarke lets her head drops down and buries her face in the pillow, flustered by Lexa’s charm. When she speaks, her voice is slightly muffled.

“There you go again.”

Lexa’s fingers have a mind of their own, absently carding through Clarke’s hair as it tumbled down her naked back.

“Do you want me to stop?” asks Lexa, her voice low.

“No,” replies Clarke, pushing herself back up so that she can look at Lexa with eyes full of mischief. “But I do think there are better things we can be doing than talking.”

Lexa grins and leans down, capturing Clarke’s mouth with her own. The angle is awkward, but the moan that erupts from Clarke’s throat is more than worth the ache in Lexa’s neck.

It hardly matters anyway because in an instant, Clarke has rolled fully onto her back, pulling Lexa’s body on top of her own. The covers slide off their bodies but there’s enough heat in this bed without them, particularly with the way that Clarke’s legs part like Lexa’s tongue has painted a secret password against Clarke’s.

Lexa moves her hand to grope Clarke’s breast, where dark nipple is taunting her, already pert and aching for attention. But Clarke has other ideas, and her fingers wrap around Lexa’s wrist before her palm can make contact with the globe of flesh, guiding that hand down over her soft stomach and through the short thatch of hair on her pubic mound instead.

Lexa should have learned by now to switch her phone off before any kind of encounter with Clarke, but there was only one thing on her mind when they made it back to her hotel room last night and it certainly wasn’t anything to do with her phone. No sooner have Lexa’s fingers found their treasure, dipping into the warmth pooling between Clarke’s legs, is the moan that leaves Clarke’s lips drowned out by the obnoxious ringtone of Lexa’s phone.

“Ignore it,” gasps Clarke, bucking her hips up off the bed in an attempt to get more definitive pressure from Lexa’s fingertips on her most sensitive of areas.

“It could be important,” says Lexa. “The world could be about to end.”

“ _Your_ world will end if you don’t finish what you’ve started,” growls Clarke.

It’s tempting to ignore the phonecall, but rationality prevails in the end. In Lexa’s line of work, she can’t really afford to miss a call. As much as Lexa wants to lose herself in Clarke once again, she would never forgive herself if something terrible were to happen because she ignored her duty

“Go on,” says Clarke, nodding reluctantly in the direction of the ringing phone.

Clarke closes her legs and pushes Lexa’s hand out from between them, reaching for the sheet to wrap around her torso. Though there is nobody apart from Lexa in the room, Lexa is grateful for the modesty that the sheet provides - answering the phone with a half-naked woman in the room is enough of a challenge without also having that woman on full display to provide a very tantalising distraction.

Lexa fumbles around in the pocket of the jacket she wore to dinner last night and takes out the still ringing phone, groaning in frustration as she reads the name of the person calling her and realises that it’s not a work-related call at all.

“Aden,” grunts Lexa, accepting the call and holding the phone up to her ear. “You know how to pick your moments.”

Aden’s voice, at that awkward stage between the gruff voice of the man he’ll grow up to be and the squeaky voice of the child he once was, croaks out, “What does that mean?”

Lexa ignores the question, because even if he wasn’t her brother, at thirteen he is far too young to be able to deal with the concept of casual sex with any kind of maturity, and deflects it with one of her own.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” she asks, glancing across at the alarm clock on the bedside table and doing a quick bit of mental maths to work out the time difference, concluding that it must still be early-afternoon in England.

Still wrapped in nothing but a sheet, Clarke shoots Lexa a curious look from the other side of the bed. With the phone still held up to her ear, Lexa mouths ‘ _my brother_ ’ at Clarke, who nods understandingly and then reaches for her own phone to pass the time.

“I got suspended,” answers Aden. With evasive tactics almost as good as his older sister’s, he presses on, “Are you still in America?”

“Whoa, hold up!” exclaims Lexa, getting to her feet and fetching the bathrobe that hangs on the hook on the bathroom door, because being stark naked while she tries to have a serious conversation with Aden just feels a little too weird, even if it’s over the phone. “You got suspended? Aden! School is important! What did you even do?”

“It’s nothing,” protests Aden. “The guy only has a black eye. I could have broken his nose if I’d wanted to.”

If Lexa’s jaw drops any further, it will end up going straight through the floor and ending up in the hotel room below hers.

“You punched another boy?” she gasps, hardly able to imagine Aden, who is as lanky as a baby giraffe and about as uncoordinated as well, getting into a fight with another boy and managing to land a punch to the face.

“Yeah,” replies Aden, “but he was saying homophobic stuff about Roshan in Year Ten so he deserved it.”

Lexa immediately feels guilty for snapping at Aden, her heart filling with a sudden burst of affection for her little brother. Aden has always been nothing but open-minded towards people from minority groups, having been raised in a two-dad household where the idea of homosexuality is about as normal as the concept of brushing your teeth in the morning, and reacting to Lexa’s own coming out with only mild irritation that Lexa interrupted his favourite cartoon with something so inconsequential. As he’s grown older and more world-aware, Lexa knows that he likes to stand up for the things he believes in, particularly when it comes to defending people who are perhaps unable to defend themselves. It’s one of the many things that Lexa loves about Aden, and she tries to remind herself of this fact instead of getting angry that he’s jeopardising his own education in favour of social justice.

“Aden,” sighs Lexa, carefully choosing her next words so that she doesn’t come across as annoyed or angry. “I know you were trying to do the right thing, but that’s not how to deal with situations like this.”

“I know,” replies Aden glumly. “I’ve already heard it all from Dad and Pops. Besides, Jordan’s going to think twice about making comments like that in the future. And so will his mates.”

Lexa doesn’t envy Aden at all, knowing all too well from her own teenage years that there are few things scarier than crossing their dads. Lexa can imagine how angry they would have been upon learning about Aden’s suspension and she can only hope that the reason behind his sudden outburst of anger may have earned him a little leniency when it comes to the punishment at home.

“I’m proud of you for sticking up for the things you believe in, but you can’t just punch other kids,” Lexa says to Aden. “That’s not how the world works.”

“I know,” says Aden, his voice full of remorse. “I’m sorry, okay? So are you still in America, or what?”

Lexa is happy with the change in conversation, satisfied with the fact that Aden will be able to come up with a better solution than violence next time he encounters a nasty homophobe.

“Still in D.C.,” she answers. “This work thing is really dragging on longer than I thought it might.”

It’s deliberately vague. Maybe when Aden is a little older, Lexa will be able to trust him with the details of what she does for a living, but thirteen year olds have enough to deal with - school stress, fitting in, staying safe in an increasingly dangerous world - without having to worry about having a secret agent for an older sister too.

“I miss you,” confesses Aden. “Can we hang out when you get back?”

“How about I ask the dads if you can spend a weekend at mine? I’ll even take you up the London Eye as a treat.”

“Yeah!” says Aden enthusiastically, and Lexa can just imagine his face lighting up. “That would be sick!”

Since she moved to London after joining Kingsman, Lexa doesn’t get to see Aden as much as she would like, particularly when her job sends her travelling all around the globe. But if anything, the distance has only made their sibling bond tighter, as they both grow older and move past petty childish rivalries. It will probably take some persuading to allow Aden to visit Lexa for a weekend, especially now that he’s been suspended from school, but Lexa is pretty sure that her dads will appreciate a weekend to themselves without Aden clattering away at his drum kit at strange hours and filling the house with his teenage boy smell.

“Okay, I’ll talk to the Dad and Pops about it later,” Lexa tells Aden. “In the meantime, don’t get into any more fights. Speak to you later!”

“Bye, Lexa!”

Lexa hangs up the phone and puts it down on top of the dresser, reaching for the charging cable plugged into the adapter in the wall and connecting it to the port at the bottom of the phone.

“How old is your brother?” asks Clarke, pushing herself up off the headboard and folding her legs beneath the rest of her body, the sheet still artfully draped to protect her modesty.

“Thirteen,” answers Lexa, returning to the bed and taking a seat next to Clarke. “He’s a good kid but he’s reached that stage teenage boys go through.”

“And you never mentioned that you have two dads,” comments Clarke, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Oh yeah, I have two dads,” grins Lexa.

Clarke rolls her eyes and nudges Lexa with her knee, as if to say ‘stop it’.

“My mum died when I was three,” explains Lexa. “Cancer. When my dad remarried a few years later, it was to another man. Nyko loves me like I’m his actual daughter and I call him Pops, the same as Aden does. They had Aden via a surrogate when I was nine.”

“I’m sorry about your mom,” says Clarke, reaching out to place one of her hands on Lexa’s thigh where it peeks out from beneath the bathrobe, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s fine,” shrugs Lexa. “I was too young to remember it happening. I don’t really remember her at all. If I try really hard, I think I can remember her presence, but the image I have of her in my head is from photographs and stories.”

“It must be cool to have two dads though,” comments Clarke.

“It is,” agrees Lexa with a nod. “Twice the dad jokes, but I couldn’t ask for better parents. When I first came out, there were a few people who thought that having two dads made me gay.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Clarke, shaking her head to show her ridicule.

“I know. Dad says he had suspicions about me before he even met Pops, anyway.”

Clarke’s fingers draw mindless patterns on Lexa’s leg, and Lexa suddenly finds herself not wanting to think about her family any longer.

“Enough about my family, wasn’t there something you wanted before my phone rang?” asks Lexa, leaning in closer to Clarke and letting the robe slip from her shoulders just enough to reveal her collarbones and the tops of her breasts.

Lexa kisses Clarke languidly, slipping her tongue out and brushing it along the crease of Clarke’s lips until Clarke’s mouth opens in a soft gasp.

“Babe, I want to,” Clarke mumbles against Lexa’s mouth. “But I should probably get back before my parents start worrying that I’ve been kidnapped. There’s a car on the way. It’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

Lexa doesn’t think that she will ever tire of the feeling she gets in her chest when Clarke calls her ‘babe’, and she tries to ignore the ache that follows immediately when she remembers that this arrangement is only temporary, doomed to fail the moment that Clarke realises she’s just a mark and Lexa returns to her home on the other side of a vast ocean.

Pulling back from the kiss, Lexa wraps the robe more securely around herself to cover her naked body and gets to her feet, aiming to put some physical distance between herself and Clarke to stop her from starting something they won’t finish.

“We should do this again sometime,” says Lexa, as she opens the closet and starts rummaging around inside, pulling a pair of dark jeans and a plaid shirt out and draping them across the foot of the bed so that she can search for some clean underwear.

“Go on a date or have sex?” asks Clarke with a smirk.

“Both,” suggests Lexa cheekily. “How about Saturday?”

The teasing smile falls from Clarke’s face, replaced with disappointment that settles deep within her eyes.

“Oh, I can’t,” she says mournfully. “I have this fancy dinner thing on Saturday night. Friday?”

Lexa shakes her head.

“Anya and I have plans.”

It’s a lie, but Lexa can get away with being slightly elusive because of her job. Besides, Anya can probably be persuaded to drop whatever plans she may have in order to make it the truth - Lexa can always pull the ‘it’s for a mission’ card if Anya is planning to spend the evening with Raven instead.

“Damn,” replies Clarke.

For a moment, Lexa worries that it’s all going to fall apart, that all of her wooing and seducing is going to be for nothing more than a series of memories that she looks back on with fondness and longing in years to come.

“Well, there is another option,” says Clarke. “I’m allowed to take a guest to the dinner on Saturday. I was going to take Raven but she bailed to hang out with Anya instead so the place is still going. If you want to come with me, then it’s yours.”

Lexa’s brain sings a celebratory fanfare inside her head, but she tries not to let it show on her face. The last thing she needs is for Clarke to think that the only reason Lexa asked her out was part of a cunning plan to get invited to the dinner.

“Are you sure?” asks Lexa. “Don’t feel pressured to invite me.”

“I want you to be there,” insists Clarke, who wraps the sheet more securely around her body and slips off the bed, traipsing around the room to collect her discarded clothes from last night. “My parents still think we’re dating so it would be completely normal for me to invite my girlfriend. And I know it’s technically only a second date, but it feels like I’ve known you for way longer than I actually have.”

Lexa’s face breaks open into a grin, a genuine one from the knowledge that Clarke actually wants to take Lexa along as her date to a really important political event. When she remembers that this is the outcome she’s secretly been hoping for, Lexa pushes down the gnawing guilt at the fact that Clarke doesn’t yet know that Lexa will be on official work business at the gala dinner.

“Then I’d love to be your date for the night,” she says honestly.

“Awesome,” smiles Clarke. “I’ll text you the details later.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” asks Lexa, arching an eyebrow at Clarke, who backs away through the door to the ensuite bathroom with a pile of her clothes clutched to her chest.

“If it’s any consolation, you make it really difficult to go,” confesses Clarke, pouting dramatically as she reaches for the door handle.

And as Clarke shuts herself in the bathroom to get dressed, Lexa flops back down onto the bed with a sigh and her eyes closed, the weight of her feelings for Clarke sitting heavily in her chest with the knowledge that she’s in far too deep now for this to end well when she has to return to England.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I usually update weekly but today is my birthday and I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate than to give you a bonus midweek update of this fic (ft. Lexa wearing a tuxedo, what more could you want?). I'm still intending to update on Sunday, as per usual.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Well, I think it’s fair to say that Clarke is going to throw herself at you the moment she sees you.”

Standing in front of the mirror, Lexa reaches up to adjust the bowtie around her neck, not satisfied that it is sitting evenly at her collar.

“Are you sure?” Lexa asks, her teeth nibbling into her lower lip in doubt.

“You look fine as hell,” nods Anya. “And you know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t actually mean it.”

The tuxedo that Lexa wears is brand new, bought and fitted from the Kingsman tailor shop back in London just a few weeks before the trip to America and this is its first ever outing. The jet black trousers have a little shine to them and a perfectly pressed crease down the centre of the leg, while the jacket - red velour with black lapels, fits Lexa perfectly, with a single button to do it up at the front. The ensemble is made complete by the bowtie, which Lexa tugs open and attempts to tie for the fourth time, still convinced that it is sitting askew.

“So, the plan…” says Lexa, deft fingers retying her bowtie, only infinitesimally neater than her last attempt.

“Plan,” snorts Anya. “There is no plan. Don’t let anybody die - that’s the plan.”

Lexa winces. Not having a plan is on her list of things that make her uncomfortable, right up there near the top with straight men and bookshelves that aren't organised alphabetically by the author’s surname.

“No plan,” says Lexa, eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “Cool. I can do that.”

Anya smiles knowingly and then says, “How about this for a plan? Keep one eye on Roan Azgeda and the other on Abby Griffin. I bet that whatever they’re up to has something to do with her, so as long as she stays safe, then we’re good.”

Feeling a little more comfortable now that she has a couple of aims for the evening, Lexa adds, “And you can track Ontari to make sure she isn’t up to no good.”

“Okay, but as I took Raven out of the equation so that you could be Clarke’s date for the night, she’s probably going to want entertaining too,” replies Anya.

Arching an eyebrow in Anya’s direction, Lexa says sarcastically, “What a noble sacrifice you’re making in the name of international security.”

“I know, right!” grins Anya.

“Do … whatever it is you’re planning to do with Raven,” says Lexa, earning a lewd smile from Anya, “but keep your phone close. I might need your help.”

“Of course!” agrees Anya. “Okay, How armed are you?”

Lexa grimaces again.

“Not very,” she tells Anya. “I can hardly walk into a party for some of the world’s biggest leaders with a gun strapped to my belt.”

“Cufflinks?” asks Anya.

Lexa extends one of her arms and her jacket sleeve moves up enough to reveal the small silver cufflinks. They look normal enough to the undiscerning eye, but they contain enough explosive to blow a hole through a metal door when used correctly.

“And my shoes,” says Lexa, clicking the toes of her polished shoes together, watching a sharp blade shoot out from the tip of each with a metallic click. “But I can’t take any actual weapons in. I’ll get thrown in jail again.”

Anya gets to her feet and stands in front of Lexa, resting her hands on Lexa’s shoulders and saying, “You’ve got this. You’re Lexa bloody Woods.”

“No,” says Lexa, shaking her head. “I’m Lancelot.”

* * *

 

“Oh my god, you look fantastic!” exclaims Clarke, sliding into the back seat of the car that has brought Lexa from her hotel to the White House, ready to join the Presidential convoy as it makes its way to the venue on the outskirts of the city for the gala dinner.

The way that Clarke gets into the car, careful not to step on the hem of the long back dress that she wears, reveals a tantalising glimpse of skin through the long slit that falls from mid-thigh to the floor. Lexa’s eyes pop out of her head, then when she deliberately forces her gaze away from Clarke’s leg and is greeted by a delicious display of cleavage by the low neckline of Clarke’s dress, her brain short-circuits entirely.

“I … uh,” stammers Lexa, her cheeks surely turning as red as her jacket. “Wow.”

“My eyes are up here,” teases Clarke.

Lexa drags her eyes up Clarke’s body to her face, where the smoky eye makeup and dash of red lipstick is having no less of an effect on Lexa than the rest of Clarke’s outfit.

“I’m so fucking gay,” exhales Lexa, feeling a little bit light-headed now that she’s in a confined space with somebody she just wants to tear the clothes off.

Clarke reaches out and slides her fingers through Lexa’s, leaving their intertwined hands on the seat between them.

“So am I,” replies Clarke. “I’m just a little better at hiding it than you are. I think you look gorgeous, by the way. And if I hadn’t spent two hours getting ready for this thing, I’d show you exactly how much.”

“And if we weren’t in the back of a car?” adds Lexa questioningly.

Clarke pauses, then adds in a sultry voice, “I don’t think that would stop me.”

Lexa groans and lets her head fall back against the leather seat.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Nope,” says Clarke, shaking her head. “Just trying to incapacitate you as much as you have done to me by wearing _that_.”

“You like it?” asks Lexa, reaching up with the hand not clasped in Clarke’s to check that her bowtie is still sitting straight.

“Definitely,” nods Clarke. “And I can’t wait to take it all off you later.”

Lexa is in half a mind to lean forward and instruct the driver to take them straight back to Lexa’s hotel, where she would quite happily let Clarke take this outfit off her. It’s only the fact that tonight is an important mission that stops her. Lexa is quickly realising that it’s a pretty major inconvenience to fall quite so spectacularly for somebody she meets on a mission, because it really does impede the way that she would behave if she didn’t have important work things to prioritise.

“Save that kind of talk for later,” Lexa warns Clarke. “Or we’ll never make it to the dinner.”

Clarke’s fingers squeeze Lexa’s and she replies in a low voice, “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“You need to show your face,” Lexa reminds Clarke. “And then later, when you’ve won over every big politician in the world, you can come back to my hotel and do what you want to me.”

Clarke’s eyes darken and her lips curl up into a smile, and Lexa is ninety-nine percent certain that Clarke’s mischievous mind is already plotting ten different ways she could take Lexa up on that offer.

“You make a compelling argument, babe.”

* * *

 

Not wanting to find her face plastered across global tabloids tomorrow morning, particularly if people start to realise that she is here as the date of the First Daughter of the United States, Lexa bypasses the press outside the venue and cuts straight inside, where she is quickly joined by Clarke once she has posed for photographs with her parents outside.

The gala dinner is every bit as spectacular as one would imagine an event hosting important political leaders from around the world and rich investors interested in boosting their public image by supporting a climate change agreement would be. Taking place in a large ballroom, there are around two dozen large circular tables set up with white tablecloths, ornate silverware, and large floral centrepieces. There are standing banners emblazoned with the emblem of the Green Planet Initiative and bouquets of green and gold balloons are positioned around the room. Between the mingling guests, waiters dressed in black and white move smoothly, carrying trays heavily laden with champagne flutes.

It’s a very lavish affair, and Lexa momentarily forgets that she has a job to do, rather than just basking in the splendour of the occasion.

That is, until she spots Roan Azgeda from across the room.

He would be easy to spot, even if his name didn’t immediately pop up on the lenses of her glasses when she scans the room. Roan commands quite a presence, carrying himself with an air of aristocracy that probably comes from growing up as a prince of a small provincial island. But even ignoring that, he’s very distinctive-looking, a huge hulk of a man. With dark hair pushed back into a low ponytail and a scruffy beard, he looks a little bit like a rugged pirate, but for the dark suit and tie that he wears.

The arrival of the American President causes quite a stir amongst the other guests, who start to slowly flock over to Abby Griffin and her family to greet them. Lexa presses a kiss to Clarke’s cheek and excuses herself, never one to enjoy being the centre of attention, and she goes to find them both drinks as Clarke dutifully mingles with the other guests.

Lexa watches Roan out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t really know what she’s expecting, certainly not a huge sign on his back saying ‘ _I’m up to something_ ’, but Lexa finds herself a little disappointed when she doesn’t immediately figure out what, if anything, he might be up to. It’s strange, because Lexa usually enjoys getting stuck into a good mystery. Picking up on subtle clues and working things out satisfies the logical part of Lexa’s mind and doing a job well, especially a difficult one, is always a good feeling. But tonight, Lexa finds herself wanting to get the work part of the evening out of the way as soon as possible.

Lexa supposes that it’s Clarke’s influence. Tonight is technically their second official date and Lexa can’t help but want to spend the night with _Clarke_.

There is also a little niggle at the back of Lexa’s mind reminding her that the sooner she gets the mission out of the way, the sooner she can forget about the fact that Clarke is just another mark and get back to actually wooing her for real.

“Are you okay?”

So caught up in her own mind, Lexa doesn’t realise that Clarke has also excused herself from the guests greeting the Griffin family and has joined Lexa’s side, taking one of the two glasses of complimentary champagne that Lexa managed to procure from a nearby waiter.

“Just a little overwhelmed,” confesses Lexa. “That’s all. There are lots of very important people in this room and I feel slightly out of place.”

Clarke seems to buy the flimsy excuse and reaches up with one hand to brush the backs of her fingers against Lexa’s cheek.

“Me too,” says Clarke, shooting Lexa a reassuring smile. “The kind of parties I’m used to are full of beer pong and body shots and couples excusing themselves to go and fuck in the upstairs bedrooms and now here I am at a party with…” Clarke trails off and scans the room, then concludes, “With the goddamn President of _France_.”

Lexa snorts.

“You say that like you don’t live with the American President.”

“I did warn you that it hasn’t sunk in yet,” replies Clarke. “I still feel like I’m living somebody else’s life. I’m at a fancy party, my mom is the President, and I’ve got a British spy as a date. I’m expecting to wake up at any moment.”

“Well I can assure you that this is real,” says Lexa. She links her arm through Clarke’s, ready to parade the most beautiful girl in the room around as her date, then says, “Can you introduce me to Vice President Kane? I really like his ideas on foreign policy and I’d love to talk to him.”

“Nerd,” Clarke mutters under her breath. “I’m so attracted to you right now. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

* * *

 

After four courses and two glasses of wine, Lexa decides that she could get used to being Clarke’s bit of arm candy.

Politicians are easy to schmooze, Lexa comes to that realisation incredibly quickly. With the aid of her glasses, Lexa knows who each person she meets is before she even shakes their hand, and knows enough information about them to be able to choose exactly the right conversation to work the room. This, combined with just enough flattery to stroke a few egos, is enough to charm every guest she meets.

Except for one.

Lexa deliberately keeps her distance from Roan but observes him out of the corner of her eye throughout the dinner. He seems quiet, keeping himself to himself unless somebody else initiates a conversation, but there is nothing suspicious about his behaviour. Nothing to indicate that he’s in the loop for whatever plan his mother and sister have concocted for tonight.

But he must know something. In this line of work, Lexa is always very sceptical of coincidence. She highly doubts that Roan would be here if he wasn’t involved in this heinous scheme.

And yet, Lexa still can’t figure out what that scheme might involve.

Lexa is just about to make a move in Roan’s direction, to perhaps ‘accidentally’ end up mingling in the same circle as him, when he makes a move of his own. Not towards Lexa, but to _Clarke_.

Excusing herself from the conversation she’s been having with the German Chancellor about European football, Lexa accepts two glasses of champagne from a nearby server and makes a beeline for Clarke and Roan. Clarke’s eyes light up as soon as she notices Lexa walking her way, beckoning Lexa over with a smile.

“Hi!” Clarke greets Lexa.

It can only have been about ten minutes since they last spoke, parting ways once the last remnants of dessert had been cleared away from the tables, but Lexa’s heart swells when she sees how happy Clarke is to see her, as if those ten minutes were ten too many to be apart.

“I brought you a drink,” says Lexa, offering out one of the champagne flutes to Clarke, who accepts it with a mutter of thanks and takes a delicate sip. Turning to Roan, Lexa pretends that she doesn’t know who he is and offers out her free hand, saying, “I don’t believe we’ve met. Lexa Woods.”

Roan takes Lexa’s hand and shakes it firmly, eyes regarding Lexa with curiosity, then says, “Roan Azgeda. You are Miss Griffin’s … guest?”

“Girlfriend,” interjects Clarke, looping one of her arms through Lexa’s and leaning into Lexa’s side.

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat, momentarily forgetting the lies they’ve woven for the benefit of Clarke’s parents, but it passes in an instant and she gives Clarke’s arm a little squeeze of affection.

“I had no idea,” says Roan.

There’s still something in his eyes and he looks between Lexa and Clarke, like he can’t quite figure them out, and Lexa feels for the first time that her fake relationship with Clarke is actually under scrutiny. Roan seems a little uneasy, and whether that’s because he doesn’t trust their relationship or because he doesn’t trust Lexa, maybe sensing that her own distrust of _him_ , Lexa isn’t quite sure yet.

“Azgeda,” says Lexa. “That wouldn’t happen to be anything to do with the island of Azgeda, would it?”

“The place where I grew up,” says Roan, inclining his head ever so slightly in the smallest of nods. “My home.”

Lexa finds it most interesting that he refers to it as his home, despite it being a number of years since he lived there, but she is also intrigued by the way he neglects to mention his position in Azgedan royalty.

“Roan was just telling me that he’s a great champion of the Green Planet Initiative,” says Clarke.

“Oh really?” asks Lexa, feigning interest to keep Roan talking.

“Climate change has really affected my home country,” Roan tells her. “I’m glad that people are finally getting together to do something about it.”

Knowing what she does about Azgeda’s demise, Lexa realises that it’s perfectly natural for Roan to be here to support the conclusion of an agreement that will help prevent something similar happening elsewhere in the future. But she also can’t help but wonder if it’s the perfect cover up, and excuse to gain entry to a high-profile event and get up to god only knows what kind of mischief.

“But the Initiative is not just about climate change,” interjects Clarke. “Of course, that a huge part of it and cutting carbon emissions is something that all of these countries are striving to achieve. But the Initiative also covers things like switching to responsible energy sources, conservation, and reducing plastic waste.”

Clarke speaks eloquently, much better informed about the Initiative than Lexa is, and Lexa is left both wondering if she should have done a little more research before attending this dinner and feeling a little disarmed by Clarke’s intelligence and poise.

“Of course,” agrees Roan. “All very important issues, which is why I’m thrilled to be here tonight to show my support for the Initiative.”

Roan reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a hip flask, made of polished silver and engraved with foreign script that Lexa doesn’t understand. He unscrews the lid and lifts the flask to his mouth, tilting his head back to take a sip of the liquid inside.

“Not a champagne man?” asks Clarke lightheartedly, gesturing to the hip flask as Roan screws the lid on tightly and returns the flask to the pocket in the lining of his jacket.

“The bubbles give me a headache,” Roan answers without hesitation.

“Is that not just called a hangover?” laughs Clarke.

Lexa tunes out their conversation, eyes focused on where Roan’s jacket conceals the flask, as if trying to summon a never-seen-before x-ray vision power to identify its contents. Lexa has used hip flasks of her own in the past, but she uses them as a convenient way to have a drink when the alternatives are far too expensive. Though Lexa can’t talk for the drinks behind the bar, having not explored that option yet, there is plenty of champagne being offered around and several bottles of unopened wine dotted around the room leftover from dinner.

Something niggles at the back of Lexa’s mind. There are two reasons why somebody would bring their own drink to an event serving free wine and champagne. One, the person doesn’t like wine or champagne. And two…

Two, _they know that somebody has tampered with the drinks._.

Suddenly, the bubbly drink in Lexa’s hand doesn’t seem half as appealing as it did a moment ago. She feels a little lightheaded, and it’s difficult to tell whether it’s actually the champagne making her feel like that or if just the thought of the champagne being tampered with is making her imagine things.

“Excuse me,” says Lexa, interrupting the conversation that Clarke is having with Roan. “I need to pop to the ladies’ room. I won’t be a moment.”

Lexa pushes her way past several other groups of people on the way to the bathroom and manages to leave her champagne flute, tainted with god knows what, on a nearby table. Once out of the main room and standing in the narrow hallway that leads to the bathrooms, Lexa is out of sight of Clarke and Roan and she takes her phone out of her pocket. There are no texts from Anya, so Lexa can only presume that nothing suspicious has happened on Ontari’s end yet, but Lexa taps the screen to call her fellow agent regardless, desperate to share her possible discovery.

It rings for a long time, and it keeps going until the robotic voice of Anya’s answering machine sounds in Lexa’s ear, asking her to leave a message.

“Anya,” says Lexa, almost as soon as she hears the tone signalling that she can start her message. “It’s me. Listen, I know you’re probably busy with Raven right now but I think I might be onto something. Roan Azgeda is drinking out of a hip flask and has been all night. I think there might be something in the free champagne they’re serving but I’m not sure what exactly yet. Can you do another sweep of Ontari’s communications for any clue as to what might be in the drinks? Nothing seems to have happened yet but if we’re talking poison then who knows when it could start acting. There are a lot of important people here and this could spell one huge disaster.”

Lexa sighs, not thinking of the handful of powerful political leaders who could be in terrible danger if the drinks have indeed been tampered with, causing a global fiasco, nor of herself and the drinks that she’s taken tonight. No, Lexa thinks of Clarke, the amazing young woman that Lexa finds herself falling for more with each passing second, and how if she doesn’t act fast and put a stop to this, then Clarke could be one of the victims of a horrible tragedy here tonight.

“I’m going to keep talking to Roan,” Lexa continues speaking into her phone. “He’s difficult to read but I might be able to get something out of him. I know that if I were poisoning the party guests, I would keep an antidote on hand just in case.” Lexa pauses, and then adds, “Please don’t spend the whole night shagging Raven. This is a tough mission and I need you.”

Hanging up the phone, Lexa drops her phone back into the inside pocket of her tuxedo jacket and turns on the spot, ready to return to the party.

Only to find a familiar pair of blue eyes watching her, their owner standing just a few feet away with a expression of combined surprise and disappointment on her face.

“Mission?” chokes out Clarke.

The blood drains from Lexa’s face as she realises that Clarke has heard at least some, if not all, of the message she’s just left on Anya’s voicemail.

“Clarke, I know what it sounded like but I swear it’s not…” Lexa starts to defend herself.

“I thought this was a date,” says Clarke, eyes shimmering with tears that she tries to blink away. “I thought you were here because of _me_ , not some dumb heist.”

“I _am_ here because of you!” protests Lexa, closing the gap between them with a few short steps and attempting to take Clarke’s hand in hers, though Clarke snatches it away before Lexa can even touch her. “I promise I’m here because of you. I just happen to be working tonight too.”

Clarke shakes her head, lifting her fingers to her eye and wiping away the year before it can trickle a damp trail down her cheek.

“I’m so stupid,” says Clarke. “ _It’s amazing what a girl will tell you after you tell her that her hair is pretty and give her an orgasm._ You said that. And somehow I was still stupid enough to think that I would be different.”

“You are different!”

“Whatever, Lexa,” says Clarke, shaking her head. “I’m done with this.”

Clarke turns and storms away back into the main ballroom, and Lexa chases after her.

“Clarke!” Lexa calls out, running after Clarke and grabbing her hand as soon as she gets close enough, forcing Clarke to stop and face her again. “Clarke, please!”

“I’ve got nothing else to say to you, Lexa!” says Clarke, raising her voice and attracting the attention of a few nearby guests, including Roan Azgeda. “You’re sly and manipulative and we’re done! I wish I could have seen through your “charm” sooner.” Clarke rolls her eyes and makes inverted commas with two fingers on each hand as she says the word charm, before she continues conclusively, “This is over between us!”

Lexa can feel her eyes burn with the threat of tears. She knows it’s stupid to get upset about a girl she’s known for such a short amount of time, but she can’t shake off the feeling that Clarke is supposed to be so much more than just a girl she met on a mission. And it’s perhaps this expectation, the hope that despite the circumstances, Lexa can see herself being happy with Clarke, that makes this untimely end to their brief relationship so much harder than it should be.

“Clarke, I’m sorry…”

Lexa gets no more than those three words out before she is hit in the face with something cold and wet. It takes Lexa a moment to realise that it’s champagne and that Clarke has picked up a flute from a nearby tray and thrown its contents over her.

“See you in hell, Lexa,” spits Clarke.

Spluttering in outrage, Lexa reaches for the pocket square that she spent a careful five minutes folding up earlier in the evening to fit decoratively into the breast pocket of her tuxedo jacket. She doesn’t let herself think about the wasted effort, instead using the square of fabric to daub at her champagne-soaked face, and by the time she opens her eyes, Clarke has already started to storm away.

“Clarke!” Lexa calls out.

It catches Clarke’s attention, and she turns her head to look over her shoulder to look at Lexa one finally time. Clarke’s angry expression softens momentarily and she shoots Lexa a wink, before turning away again and disappearing into the throng of guests.

Okay, what the actual _fuck_?


	11. Chapter 11

“Dating women is just so much hassle,” complains Clarke. “It’s non-stop drama. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”

It’s a complete lie. From Clarke’s experiences of dating both men and women, it’s always the guys that cause drama-fuelled relationship, throwing tantrums like bratty toddlers if they don’t get what they want, or if they run out of hair product, or if they get a tiny fleck of dirt on their pristine shoes. But for now, when Clarke is trying to get Roan on side by trash-talking Lexa, it’s what she says, and Roan seems to drink it all right up.

“I know what you mean,” he agrees in a gruff voice. “Some women are very high maintenance. Not you, obviously. You’re very down to earth.”

Clarke has to refrain from rolling her eyes and instead forces herself to smile at Roan, batting her eyelids in his direction. He would probably be Clarke’s type in any other situation - well-spoken, reasonably modest considering his upbringing, and not at all like any of the arrogant jerks she knows from college - but Clarke can’t shake the fact that he could be the perfect match for her and he would still be incomparable with Lexa.

Lexa, who Clarke is definitely furious with after finding out that the secret agent has just been using her for the gain of another one of her missions.

“I can’t believe that Lexa would use me for fame,” Clarke complains aloud, deciding that talking shit about Lexa in front of Roan is probably the quickest way to earn his trust. “I trusted her in a way that I haven’t trusted anybody in a long time. I thought she was different.”

It’s the truth. Clarke absolutely _does_ feel betrayed. It feels a bit like Lexa has reached a clawed hand down Clarke’s throat and ripped off a chunk of her heart, leaving the dismembered remains to form an uncomfortable lump in her chest, aching in a miserable reminder of what Lexa has done.

It shouldn’t feel like this. Clarke has known Lexa not even two weeks yet. Clarke has cared less about relationships that ended after months. But Clarke has opened up more in these few short encounters with Lexa than she has with anybody else for a while. And she thought that Lexa had been opening up to her too, but it’s only now that Clarke knows the truth, that she wonders how much of what Lexa has shared with her is the truth. Are the things that Lexa has told her about her childhood and her brother and her dads true? Are Lexa’s mannerisms, the way that she can be cool and suave one moment and refreshingly human the next, just a clever act to win Clarke over?

Clarke wishes that she had the time to ponder these questions. She wishes that she could spend hours mentally deconstructing every moment that she’s spent with Lexa, and hours more interrogating and picking at Lexa’s mind to unwrap the truth.

Time, however, is a luxury afforded to those who don’t have a world to save. Clarke knows now that Lexa is at this dinner as part of a mission, and from the snippet of Lexa’s phone conversation that she overheard, she knows that Roan might be involved. Clarke has to put whatever feelings she has for Lexa, of both affection and betrayal, to the side until she has helped put a stop to Roan’s plan.

Whatever it might be.

Which leads Clarke to here, to sitting in the corner of a busy ballroom, sharing a hip flask of whiskey and complaining about the very person that Clarke should be with right now instead.

“They’re all the same,” says Roan. “All interested in money and power.”

“Of course! You must get it all the time too. People who are only interested in you because of who you are. Or rather, who your _parents_ are.”

Roan nods and says, “Maybe not as much as you do, but yes. Azgeda was small enough that everybody somehow knew everybody through mutual friends but that almost made it worse. I would have been King one day, and every woman I met thought that she could be the next queen.”

“Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet somebody who finally _gets_ it,” says Clarke. “I mean, dating in college is difficult enough without having to work out who is genuinely interested and who just wants to sleep with the President’s daughter for bragging rights.”

“If they took the time to get to know you properly, they’d know that they’d be lucky to be with you, President’s daughter or not.”

Clarke rests a hand on Roan’s arm and says, “You’re really sweet.”

Clarke has to try really hard not to glance immediately over to the bar, where she knows Lexa is sitting alone nursing a drink.

* * *

 

“The same again, please,” says Lexa, knocking back the dregs of whiskey at the bottom of her glass tumbler and placing it back on the bar with a clunk, sliding it across the wooden surface towards the bartender.

“One of those night, huh?” says the bartender, reaching for the bottle and pouring a generous amount into the bottom of the glass.

“Thanks,” says Lexa.

She takes a sip and then reaches for her phone, dialling Anya for the third time in thirty minutes.

“Anya,” says Lexa, as soon as it rings out and she gets put through to voicemail, _again_. “When you’ve finished having a sex marathon with Raven, please call me back. I still have no idea what’s going to happen here, I’m now on my third whiskey…”

“Fourth,” interjects the bartender.

“...fourth whiskey,” Lexa corrects herself, slipping off the stool and taking a few steps away from the bar so that she can speak without worrying about any of the bar staff eavesdropping on her conversation, “and to be honest, the more I drink, the less likely I am to be able to react when something _does_ happen. For fuck’s sake, _Clarke_ is getting further with Roan than I am. Just … just call me, okay?”

Lexa lets out a sigh, clasping her free hand across her eyes while she takes a moment to think, then lets it fall back into her lap.

“I need you, Anya,” she continues, her voice barely a whisper as she tries not to sound too whiny and desperate. “I really need you. I’m not Kingsman’s best agent, not anywhere near without you at my side. And …”

Lexus trails off, distracted by a figure that catches her eye, and she doesn’t need the name that flashes up on the lenses of her glasses to recognise Ontari Azgeda.

“...and Ontari is here! Anya, I need your support!”

There’s a beeping through the speaker of Lexa’s phone and she realises that there’s an incoming call, which she quickly answers.

“Lexa, Ontari’s there!” comes Anya’s voice, an urgent whisper through Lexa’s phone. “She’s at the dinner!”

Anya’s call is about fifteen seconds too late, and Lexa has to try to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“No shit,” says Lexa. “I’m looking right at here. Where the hell have you been? I’ve called you three times!”

Lexa doesn’t want to get mad at Anya, not when the situation here is so critical and Anya is the only one who might be able to help her through it, but she can’t help the frustration that seeps into her voice.

“I’m with Raven, you know that,” replies Anya.

“Have you listened to any of the messages I left you?”

There’s a guilty silence, then Anya answers, “No.”

“Okay, so glossing over that - and we will revisit it when there aren’t lives at risk - things have gone to shit here,” Lexa explains, picking up her drink and walking away from the bar into a more secluded area of the room, where there’s less risk of her being overheard. “I haven’t managed to get anything out of Roan, I think there might be poison in the free drinks, and to top it all off, Clarke threw a drink in my face and now she’s really angry with me.”

“What the fuck?”

“I know!” agrees Lexa. “I understand that maybe she’s annoyed that I used her for a mission, but throwing a drink in my face? That’s a step too-”

“No,” interrupts Anya. “Not what I meant. The drinks are poisoned?”

Lexa realises her mistake too late and her cheeks burn red with embarrassment.

“Oh, right,” she says stiffly. “I think they’re poisoned. Or at least, tampered with in some way. Roan Azgeda is drinking out of a hip flask and looked horrified when I offered him a glass of the free champagne.”

“Fuck,” Anya exhales softly.

“Exactly,” agrees Lexa. “And it’s all falling apart. Ontari is here, Clarke is flirting with Roan to get information from him - or at least I hope she is, because otherwise she’s flirting with him just to piss me off - and I’ve had way too much potentially poisoned alcohol to be able to think clearly about what to do next. Meanwhile, you’re shacked up in a sex den with Raven instead of helping and…”

“Lexa, relax,” Anya cuts Lexa off mid-sentence, jumping in before Lexa can work herself up to the point where she starts having a panic attack not even twenty feet from the President of the United States. “I’m sorry about not answering your calls. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to be on my way there as soon as I’m dressed, but in the meantime I need you to keep things under control until I get there. That means stopping Ontari from doing anything until I can get you a gun. Knock her out if you have to. And if you can get Clarke back on side then we really need to find out if there’s an antidote to this poison.”

Lexa takes a few deep breaths to calm herself down, and once her head is clear enough to think without the crushing force of the world’s impending doom bearing down upon her, she starts to process Anya’s words and formulate an action plan.

“Antidote,” Lexa parrots back. “Ontari. Got it.”

“You can do this, Lancelot,” says Anya.

The use of her agent name immediately catches Lexa’s attention, and she straightens her back and focuses her mind. Lexa’s hand instinctively goes up to her bowtie, then falls again when she realises that she doesn’t have the time to redo it if it’s not sitting straight anyway.

“I can do this,” Lexa repeats, for her own benefit more than a reassurance for Anya.

“Keep me updated,” says Anya. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Anya ends the call, leaving Lexa once again alone in the chaos of the gala dinner.

It’s the least chaotic chaos that Lexa has ever seen. The guests mingle and drink and laugh and the chaos is perhaps all in Lexa’s head, knowing that something terrible might happen to these innocent people who don’t have a clue. Looking around, Lexa can almost trick herself into thinking that everything is fine.

Everything is not fine. During her conversation with Anya, Ontari has disappeared from view. As much as Lexa scans the room for the familiar dark hair, Lexa just can’t work out where she’s gone, and whether that’s because Ontari is hidden by the crowds or because she’s disappeared elsewhere, Lexa can’t tell.

Lexa spares a quick glance to the corner of the room, relieved to see that Roan is still where she last saw him, though her heart gives an uncomfortable twinge at the sight of Clarke still engaged in conversation with him.

Opening up a new message on her phone, Lexa is only half-looking at the screen as she types out the quickest text to Clarke ever.

**Lexa Woods**  
_Antidote._

Lexa moves through the room as she searches for Ontari, swiftly bypassing the British Prime Minister because she’s had a little too much to drink to be able to converse cordially with somebody whose politics she fundamentally disagrees with. Her phone signals a new text message when she’s weaving between a few of the large tables, and she stops to read it.

**Clarke Griffin  
** _Already on it._

A second message comes in before Lexa can send her thanks.

**Clarke Griffin  
** _Still mad at you by the way. Super pissed. But that fight can wait until we’re not about to die._

Lexa has mixed feelings, more upset by the actual words in front of her confirming that Clarke is angry with her than she expects, but relieved that Clarke isn’t going to let their little misunderstanding get in the way of a potential life or death situation. She glances over to Clarke, hoping to find Clarke looking right back at her and possibly giving her some kind of nod of reassurance, but is instead met with the sight of Clarke tipping her head back in laughter as Roan says something.

Lexa can’t imagine whatever Roan is saying can be quite so funny to warrant that much laughter from Clarke, but she just has to trust that Clarke understands the urgency of the situation and knows exactly what she’s doing.

But she can’t help but feel a little jealous, and shoots off another message to Clarke.

**Lexa Woods**  
_If we’re about to die then I want you to know that I’m sorry and that I think I might be in love with you._

When there’s no immediate reply, Lexa swallows her disappointment and drops her phone back into her pocket, resuming the search for Ontari.

And she doesn’t have to look far, because Ontari has presented herself to Lexa. She only has to glance up to spot the girl she’s looking for straight away.

Standing up on the stage. With a microphone in her hand. In front of, like, _three hundred people_.

This has disaster written all over it.

“Good evening, honoured guests,” Ontari says into the microphone, her voice reverberating through the speakers on either side of the stage. “If I could have your attention for just a few moments.”

Ontari speaks with more of a European accent than her older brother, like he’s made more of an effort to assimilate into his new home since being welcomed to the States than she has. Her voice, resonating throughout the room, catches the attention of all the guests, who fall silent except for a few hushed mutterings.

“What an honour it is to be here tonight in such great company,” says Ontari. Lifting a champagne flute into the air, she continues, “I ask you to join me in raising a glass to the Green Planet Initiative!”

“The Green Planet Initiative!” the crowd mumbles collectively, before lifting whatever drinks they happen to have in their hands up to their lips for a drink.

Lexa feels as though she sees it all happen in slow motion, she hears the words come through the speakers and she sees the guests drinking their probably poisoned drinks and realises all too late that Ontari’s toast isn’t a celebration of the Initiative, but instead a cunning ploy to watch as many people as possible unwittingly poison themselves.

Retrospectively, Lexa realises that it’s already too late, that these people have already ingested the poison in earlier drinks, but in the moment she’s unable to stop herself from crying out into the quiet room.

“No!”

A few dozen pairs of eyes turn to look at Lexa, including those belonging to Ontari. Ontari’s eyes narrow, then widen as she seems to recognise Lexa from their brief interaction on the streets of D.C.

“‘No’ indeed,” says Ontari, a smug smile spreading across her lips that Lexa wants nothing more than to run up to the stage and punch right off her face. “It would be a shame if this champagne - this lovely _free_ champagne - happened to contain traces of poison, wouldn’t it?”

The muttering starts again, and Lexa feels her insides sink faster than a lead weight in the ocean. It’s one thing to suspect that there’s poison in the drinks, but it’s another thing entirely to have it confirmed. Lexa feels sickening dread encompass her entire being, knowing that she has ultimately failed in her job to protect all these people from danger unless she finds an antidote _fast_.

“Let me tell you how this is going to work,” says Ontari, who seems to be basking in the anguish of the hundreds of people watching her, waiting to learn of their fate. “Where is President Griffin?”

Abby Griffin doesn’t identify herself, but the way that every head in the room turns to look at her seems to cast a spotlight on her. Lexa can see the worry etched on Abby’s face as Ontari’s eyes fall upon her.

“Ma’am,” says Ontari, and though she inclines her head almost out of respect, her voice drips with sarcasm that counteracts that immediately. “You’ve got a big decision to make. But let me tell you a story first.”

Ontari pauses for dramatic effect, apparently basking in the trepidation written on the hundreds of faces that watch her.

“Two years ago, I was forced to leave my home, Azgeda. Such a beautiful place, filled with beautiful people. Such a tragedy, what happened. You see, President Griffin, Azgeda no longer exists and that’s because of global warming. Can you imagine having to flee your own home because Mother Nature decided to destroy it? I don’t think you can. You get everything given to you over here. Your cars that pump out poisonous fumes, your flashy technology that saps up energy and fries the earth, your plastic packaging on everything that fills up the ocean and wipes out entire species.”

Ontari keeps her eyes on Abby Griffin the entire time she speaks, becoming more emphatic and enraged the more she speaks.

“So when you come up with an initiative like this, claiming to want to look after this planet, I say fuck that. Too little, too late. You don’t get to sit here, eating fancy dinners and drinking champagne and toasting to a job well done, before returning to your beds tonight, while I have to live with just the fading memories of my home in the country that helped destroy it. Fuck that.”

Ontari pauses, gleefully taking in the horrified expressions of the hundreds of guests that stare up at her with wide eyes, then continues, “The United States has one of the biggest carbon emissions per capita out of all the countries in the world. President Griffin, your country is destroying our beautiful planet, and for that you must pay.”

As Ontari continues her speech, Lexa carefully pushes her way through the crowd, muttering _excuse me_ under her breath over and over as she goes.

“You have a big decision to make,” Madam President,” says Ontari, addressing Abby Griffin. “There isn’t enough antidote for everybody, so either you and your government die, including your husband and daughter, and I give everybody else the antidote, or you let everybody else die and I give you the antidote.”

Finally reaching the front of the room, Lexa climbs up onto the stage, wishing now more than ever that she had smuggled a gun into the venue so that she could point it at Ontari’s head until she gives up the location of the antidote. Without a weapon, Lexa has to settle for using words to persuade Ontari not to kill anybody.

“Can’t you see that they’re trying to make change?” Lexa pleads, gesturing down at the guests. “What happened to Azgeda is truly terrible, but we can’t go back and change the past. What we can do, is to do everything we can to stop it happening again. That’s why everybody is here tonight. Every person in this room believes in change for the future, perhaps none more so than President Griffin. This is _her_ Initiative. Her predecessor may have done everything he could to brand climate change as a myth, but she’s trying to put things right. Nobody deserves to get punished for that.”

There is silence in the ballroom as everybody, Ontari included, considers Lexa’s words. For a brief, deluded moment, Lexa thinks that she might have done enough, that her words might have had an impact on Ontari’s way of thinking, but then Ontari scoffs into the microphone and addresses the guests once more.

“Somebody will pay for what happened to my country,” snarls Ontari. “It’s up to you, President Griffin, to decide who that is. Either you and your government die and I give the antidote to everybody else, or you save yourselves and watch them all die. You’ve got one hour to make your decision.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what Lexa looks like in the red tuxedo from last chapter, this one, and the next, head over to my tumblr (@almostafantasia) where there is an amazing edit by the incredibly talented thecrimsonknight in the moodboard to accompany this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

Clarke hasn’t smoked since freshman year of college. She’s never been a habitual smoker, never even bought a cigarette. It’s always been a case of using somebody else’s lighter to light somebody else’s cigarette after a few too many beers at a frat party. Clarke doesn’t really like the taste, but it’s usually been numbed by enough alcohol in her system until she wakes up the following morning with terrible breath and the smell of cigarette fumes lingering in her hair before she can summon the energy to haul herself out of bed and into the shower.

Clarke dropped her habit of social smoking near the end of freshman year, deciding that she was getting absolutely nothing from the experience. And with the way that the media likes to misinterpret and blow things hugely out of proportion, Clarke knows that it would only take an appearance in the back of somebody else’s blurry photo with a cigarette caught between her fingers for every news outlet in the country to be emblazoning their front pages with the headline ‘ _FIRST DAUGHTER GONE WILD_ ’. Clarke doesn’t have the patience to deal with that kind of blowout.

And yet here she is, lifting a cigarette that once again doesn’t belong to her up to her lips, passing it back and forth with a stranger she met at a party. Admittedly, this is a way fancier party than the raucous college affairs she is used to, and the person sharing their cigarette with her is a former prince, but the parallels are there. Clarke almost feels like that freshman girl all over again.

She and Roan have found a secluded garden not too far from the main ballroom, which is where they share their cigarette. The garden is small - a patch of overgrown lawn and a few half-wilted flowers in pots, nothing at all like the grandeur of the ballroom itself - and the doors from the kitchen lead out onto it, bringing a gentle waft of cooking aromas that still linger from the earlier meal, as well as the muffled shouts of kitchen staff giving orders as they clear up.

The garden gives Clarke the privacy to investigate Roan even further. She sincerely hopes that she won’t end up having to kiss him to wheedle the right information out of him, but the fact remains that if she needed to then she  _ could _ .

A shudder ripples through Clarke’s body at the thought.

Clarke hates the fact that the main objection her brain puts forward to the idea of kissing Roan, is that it would feel like cheating on Lexa. Which is frankly  _ ridiculous _ , because Clarke has never been in a relationship with Lexa and at this point she doesn’t know if they even have a future together anyway.

Being outside provides Clarke with an opportunity to take another step towards delving into Roan’s possible misdemeanors tonight, and she lets an obvious shiver tremble her body, exaggerating the reaction that she’s having to the chill of the night air.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” she says, wrapping her arms tightly around herself in an attempt to ward off the chill.

Roan, raised to be both a prince and a gentleman, doesn’t hesitate in slipping his arms out of his own jacket and passing it across to Clarke.

“Here, wear this,” he tells her.

“Are you sure?” asks Clarke, pretending as though this isn’t exactly what she hoped he would do.

“Of course,” Roan insists, with a nod. “You need it more than I do.”

“Thank you.”

Clarke drapes the jacket over her shoulders, not bothering to slide her arms into the sleeves yet. As she adjusts the jacket so that it hangs over her arms, warding out the cold, Clarke tries to get a feel of the things he has in his jacket pockets. She feels the weight of his hip flask in the inner pocket, as well as the lighter and box of cigarettes, and she quickly realises that the surprising weight in his right side pocket is his cell phone - which might come in handy if she can subtly remove it and hide it in her clutch bag.

But there’s nothing that might be an antidote, which is what Clarke is really looking for. She’s been hoping that he would keep a small amount of antidote on his person, just in case he ends up accidentally  ingesting some of the poison himself.

Clarke decides to try another tactic.

“You know, I’m feeling a little…” Clarke pauses to search for the right word, then finishes, “... a little woozy. Like I’ve drunk too much, except I don’t think I actually have.”

“Are you okay?” asks Roan, reaching out to rest his hand on Clarke’s arm. “Can I do anything to help? Can I get you anything?”

Clarke shakes her head, leaning slightly into Roan’s touch.

“The fresh air helps a little, I think,” says Clarke.

She lifts one of her hands and presses her palm flat against her forehead, laying it on even thicker by closing her eyes and taking deep breaths in and out. Clarke wants Roan to feel sorry for her, so much that he concedes and tells her where she can find an antidote.

But it strikes her now that maybe Roan won’t ever tell her where the antidote is, maybe she’s misjudged him and he’s sick enough to flirt with a girl he knows is dying.

That thought actually  _ does _ make Clarke start to feel queasy, because she has just realised that she’s alone in a secluded garden with somebody who Lexa thinks might have drugged everybody at this party, Clarke included. Clarke could be the poster girl for a stranger danger campaign, a perfect example of what  _ not _ to do.

In the worst case scenario, Clarke is pretty sure she could snap the heel off her shoe and use it as a shiv to threaten Roan into telling her where the antidote is.

“I can get you a glass of water if you like,” suggests Roan.

Clarke seriously considers letting him go - it would give her a chance to search his jacket properly and maybe even get access to his phone - but she decides against it. Lexa has trusted Clarke to get the antidote from Roan and that’s definitely not going to happen if Clarke allows him to leave her sight.

“No,” she says to Roan. “Stay here.”

Clarke loops her arm through his, stopping him from leaving, or even moving, and then makes a decision.

“Can I tell you something?” Clarke asks.

“Go ahead.”

“Somebody told me earlier that the drinks were tampered with,” says Clarke, keeping her voice as calm as possible. “That they’d been drugged or possibly even poisoned. What if that’s true and it’s starting to affect me?”

The way that Roan stiffens against Clarke’s side is enough to confirm that it’s true and that he’s involved.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with the drinks.”

“Ridiculous?” repeats Clarke, pulling her arm out of Roan’s and swivelling in her seat so that she can look at him. “How’s this for ridiculous? The same person told me that  _ you’re _ the one who tampered with the drinks!”

Roan’s face pales visibly, even under the gloom of the starless sky, and he glances away guiltily.

“I guess that answers that question,” says Clarke.

“It’s not like that,” Roan starts to protest.

“Oh, isn’t it?” demands Clarke. “Please explain exactly what it  _ is _ like!”

“I didn’t poison the drinks, I swear,” says Roan, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m only here to oversee, to make sure that the champagne gets drunk.”

“Well, as long as that helps you sleep at night,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes.

“I saved you! Doesn’t that count for something?”

Clarke stalls, surprised and confused by his words, and asks, “You saved me? How?”

“The whiskey in the hip flask,” he tells her. “There’s an antidote in there. It was there in case I drunk the poison by accident. But I shared it with you because I don’t want you to die. It’s not fair for you to get caught up in something that’s all about politics.”

“And what about all the hundreds of other guests?” demands Clarke, getting to her feet and folding her arms across her chest. “You give me the antidote and you think that means you don’t have to feel guilty about the hundreds of other people who could die? My parents drunk the champagne! Am I supposed to be okay with them dying and feel grateful that you decided to save me in the hope that I’d fuck you later?”

“Clarke...” says Roan, standing up and taking a couple of steps towards her.

“No!” shouts Clarke. “Stay away from me!”

Clarke impulsively kicks off one of her heeled shoes and bends to pick it up, holding it up in one of her hands with the heel pointing out towards Roan like a weapon. She knows that he could probably overpower her in an instance, but she hopes it makes him think twice before doing so.

“It’s not like that, Clarke,” Roan tries to defend himself.

“That’s  _ exactly _ what it’s like,” snarls Clarke. She glances away, then says, “Jesus, why does everybody I try to get close to end up being a grade-A prick?”

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” says Roan. “I tried to make this right.”

He tries to step closer again, and Clarke wields her shoe like a knife, warning him to stay away.

“How about next time you try not to poison three hundred people in the first pl-?”

Clarke doesn’t get to finish because she gets cut off by a loud bang coming from the direction of the ballroom. And it’s not a ‘somebody has slipped over on the dance floor’ kind of bang, or even a ‘one of the tables has just collapsed’ kind of bang, but a very definite ‘something has just exploded’ kind of bang. 

“What the hell was that?”

* * *

“What the hell was that?”

“Firecrackers,” says Anya, pulling back her jacket to reveal a small handgun tucked into the waistband of her trousers, which she passes across to Lexa. “Two of them, to distract the security long enough for us to get in. It was Raven’s idea.”

Raven, who for some reason Anya has decided to bring along, takes a mock bow.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m here all week.”

“So what’s happening?” Anya asks Lexa.

“Well, Ontari has just announced to the room that she’s poisoned the champagne,” explains Lexa. “I think you can see how well that went down.”

Lexa thinks that guests have actually taken the news rather well. There’s a shroud of panic filling the room and the occasional hysterical guest, but Lexa was expecting a complete uproar and there hasn’t been one. A few of the political leaders look very concerned, and there are at least three of them babbling away in their native tongue down the phone, no doubt trying to find a solution.

The American government are slightly separated from the rest of the guests, and Lexa isn’t sure if that’s by personal choice or because the others are deliberately segregating them after Ontari’s little announcement. Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane are deep in conversation, while their spouses look on in concern, and Lexa doesn’t envy the decision they’re being forced to make.

It’s Lexa’s job to make sure it doesn’t come down to that.

“Where’s Roan?” asks Anya.

“Probably kidnapping Clarke,” admits Lexa glumly.

“Wrong!”

Lexa doesn’t know if she’s more surprised by the way Clarke suddenly appears beside her, or the way she looks. Clarke wears a tuxedo jacket over her slinky black dress, sleeves rolled up to compensate for how large it is on her, and she’s lost her shoes, choosing to walk around barefoot instead.

“Where are your…?” Lexa starts to ask, gesturing to Clarke’s feet, but she gets cut off before she can even finish her sentence.

“Drink,” says Clarke, thrusting Roan’s hip flask at Lexa.

“I think I’ve had enough to drink tonight,” says Lexa, shaking her head.

“It’s got antidote in it,” explains Clarke. “Just drink a little, I want some left to give my parents.”

“Where’s Roan?” asks Lexa, taking a swig from the flask and passing it back to Clarke.

“Writhing around on the floor in a garden next to the kitchen,” answers Clarke. When all three girls gape at her in confusion, she explains, “I kicked him in the balls and ran away.”

“I’ll deal with him,” says Anya. “We don’t want him getting away.”

Clarke reaches inside the jacket she wears - Roan’s jacket, Lexa realises - and brings out a phone.

“This belongs to him. There might be something useful on it and I’m certain he knows where the antidote is.”

“It has to be nearby,” says Lexa. “And there must be large quantities of it. I don’t think they actually want to kill everyone, just the President.”

“What?” asks Clarke, her eyes wide with horror.

“I’ll leave you to explain that little nugget,” says Anya, tucking Roan’s phone into her trouser pocket and grabbing Raven by the arm. “Come on Raven, let’s go and bitch-slap a grown man together.”

Anya and Raven leave, and Lexa is left alone with Clarke for the first time since she had a drink thrown in her face, and Clarke is no less furious.

“What do you mean they only want to kill the President?” demands Clarke. “That’s my mom!”

“I’m aware! And I’m not going to let it happen, regardless of who she is. I need you to reassure your parents that we’re sorting this out. Nobody is going to die.”

“If you’re wrong about that then I’m going to be so mad at you,” threatens Clarke.

“Well, it may end up being me who dies,” admits Lexa. “I need to find and confront Ontari Azgeda and something tells me she won’t be as easy to manipulate as her brother.”

As Lexa trails off, Clarke stares at her with a frown on her face, seeming torn between concern and the anger she still feels about Lexa lying to her.

“Just … don’t die,” says Clarke.

“I’ll try not to,” says Lexa, keeping her tone light in an attempt to mask the fact that her own death is a very real possibility if she gets it wrong tonight.

“I’m serious,” says Clarke, slapping Lexa’s arm with the back of her hand. “Nobody is dying today, that includes you.”

“I know.”

Clarke’s gaze flies down to Lexa’s lips and for just a second, Lexa wonders if Clarke is going to lean in and kiss her, despite their earlier disagreement. But the moment passes and Clarke turns to walk away in the direction of her parents.

“Fuck,” mutters Lexa, though she doesn’t indulge herself in any more self-pity, knowing that she can’t afford that luxury when there are lives at stake.

Lexa does a quick search of the ballroom for Ontari, who disappeared shortly after concluding her unwelcome speech, but she isn’t anywhere to be seen. Lexa is hardly surprised. She tries to put herself in Ontari’s position, imagining what she would do next and where she would go, and concludes that she would also do a disappearing act until the President makes her decision. None of the guests are leaving, knowing that they need to stick around to have any hope of being given an antidote, so it makes sense that Ontari would keep herself out of the way until she needs to return to the ballroom.

Lexa waits until she’s clear of the ballroom before she draws her gun, not wanting to alarm any of the guests. But it backfires immediately when she rounds a corner and is met by a horrified scream. There’s a woman standing a couple of feet away, hands held up in surrender as she eyes Lexa’s gun in terror.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” says Lexa, lowering the gun to show the woman that she isn’t a threat. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Have you seen the woman who spoke in the hall earlier?”

The woman slowly lowers one of her hands and points behind her.

“Thank you so much,” says Lexa.

She raises her gun again and starts to creep down the corridor, carefully checking each room as she passes. They’re mostly storage cupboards, with a couple of single-stall bathrooms and a cold pantry as Lexa nears the kitchen, but each one is empty. Lexa knows that Ontari can’t have gone far in just a few minutes, but she’s starting to wonder if perhaps finding her now is going to be an impossible task.

Hearing voices from the last door on the right, Lexa edges forward slowly. Her gun is still poised ready for action, but she wields it warily, not wanting to find herself is a situation where she fires it blindly out of defensive instinct and hits an innocent target by accident.

The door is slightly ajar and Lexa peers through the crack. Lexa can tell that this is the kitchen, but the only person she can see inside is the bartender who served her earlier.

There’s a second voice though, and the accent is unmistakable. Following her speech in front of three hundred guests, Lexa would recognise Ontari Azgeda’s voice anywhere.

“She’s going to do it,” says Ontari’s voice. “She’s going to sacrifice herself to save the rest of them.”

“You’re sure?” asks the bartender.

“Certain,” answers Ontari. “This would have been so much more fun with her predecessor. He would have let them all die to save himself. Maybe I should make things interesting and shoot the Griffin girl right in front of her own mother so that the President knows what it’s like to lose something you love.”

“The only person dying tonight is you,” says Lexa, crashing through the door with her gun raised.

Ontari looks startled to see Lexa for about half a second, then a slow smile spreads across her face.

“I should have guessed that you would show up again,” says Ontari. “Alexandria Woods. Born July 1st 1998 to Gustus and Eve Woods in Oxfordshire, England. Your mother passed away when you were…”

“Shut up!” shouts Lexa. Her eyes drop to the name badge pinned to the bartender’s shirt, and she says, “Echo, get out of here.”

“Echo, stay,” counters Ontari.

Echo stays put, but there’s indecision on her face.

Lexa’s decision is a much easier one to make. She aims the gun lower, pointing it at Ontari’s shin, and pulls the trigger before either of the other two women can realise what she’s doing. Ontari lets out a cry of pain and drops to the floor, clutching her leg.

Looking at Echo again, Lexa asks, “Do you still want to stay?”

Echo shakes her head and hurries from the room, leaving Lexa alone with Ontari.

“You psycho bitch!” snarls Ontari, clutching her leg with blood-soaked fingers.

“Rich, coming from you,” retorts Lexa, taking a few steps forward and pointing the gun at Ontari’s head.

“You’re not going to kill me,” says Ontari.

“You want to bet?” challenges Lexa, taking a couple of steps closer, her fun still pointed at Ontari.

“You need me. If I die, then so do all those people.”

“Your brother has already told my colleague where the antidote is,” says Lexa, calling Ontari’s bluff. “They’re getting ready to distribute it to the guests as we speak.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Lexa narrows her eyes.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Ontari doesn’t answer, and her silence is far more telling than anything she could have possibly said.

“Because you’re guarding the antidote, aren’t you?” Lexa answers her own question, feeling a little stupid for not realising earlier. Her eyes fall to a big keg in the corner of the kitchen, the most obvious place to stash it, and she asks, “Is that where you’re storing it?”

Lowering the gun to her side, Lexa walks over to the keg and turns the tap on the side. The liquid that trickles out onto the floor isn’t easily recognisable, but it’s definitely not the beer that Lexa assumed was in there when she first saw the keg, and she can’t think why they would possibly be storing water in a container like this.

“Bingo,” Lexa mutters to herself.

She reaches into her trouser pocket to take out her phone, ready to fire a quick text to Anya to let her know where the antidote is, but before she can even unlock her phone, the kitchen door comes crashing open again and Anya herself bursts through with Raven right behind her.

“Oh,” says Anya, apparently surprised to find Lexa already here. “The antidote. It’s in the…”

“In the kitchen,” finishes Lexa.

It’s nice to have her suspicions reaffirmed by Anya, who must have been able to wheedle the same information out of Roan. Lexa breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that they can start distributing the antidote to the guests immediately, ensuring that nobody dies here tonight.

But Lexa has only about two seconds to bask in her triumph, because Ontari uses the distraction of Anya’s appearance to make her attack. Still on the floor, where the blood seeping from the bullet wound in her leg stains the otherwise sterile kitchen floor, Ontari wraps her fingers around Lexa’s ankle and pulls her to the ground too. Her other hand lunges for the gun, attempting to pry Lexa’s fingers from around the grip. Lexa doesn’t give up easily, if anything she clutches into the weapon tighter.

And that’s probably her mistake. In wrestling over the gun, Lexa doesn’t realise that one of them has accidentally pulled the trigger until she hears the gunshot echo around the kitchen and feels the reverberations in her hand.

It’s the cry of pain, closely followed by the thud of a body slamming into the counter and dropping to the floor that sends a chill down Lexa’s spine. For just a moment, she panics that she’s just shot Anya, her oldest and closest friend, but when she looks up and sees Anya perfectly well, but hunched over Raven’s limp body, the colour drains from her face. Lexa almost wishes that the bullet  _ had _ hit Anya, who signs up for thrills and danger and the very real possibility of getting shot just through the nature of her work. But Raven is just an innocent bystander, somebody who was never supposed to be here tonight, a young woman who agreed to a night in with an exciting new lover and ended up getting dragged into this most perilous of situations.

“Fuck!” cries out Anya, cradling Raven’s face in her hands. “Babe, are you okay? Raven, say something.”

There’s a few wheezing noises, then Raven gasps out, “Hurts like a fucking bitch.”

Lexa can see blood oozing out of a wound in Raven’s thigh and breathes out a sigh of relief that the bullet wound isn’t fatal. Not yet, at least, and as Anya scrambles for her phone and dials for an ambulance, Lexa sends out a silent prayer that they can get Raven to a hospital for she loses too much blood.

In all the drama, Lexa nearly forgets that Ontari is still here. Invigorated and enraged by Raven’s injury, Lexa swings her elbow hard into Ontai’s face, hearing the crunch of her nose breaking and feeling the spatter of blood hit her arm. Crying out with pain, Ontari releases her grip on the gun as both of her hands come up to clutch her face, and Lexa takes the opportunity to roll away across the kitchen floor and get to her feet. She cocks the gun and points it at Ontari.

“Did you really think you were going to get away with this?” asks Lexa. “Everybody saw your face.  _ Everybody _ knows who you are. Abby Griffin would sacrifice herself but all those other people would still know who was the one who killed her.”

“Maybe I’d let them die too,” pants Ontari, a deliriously evil look in her eyes.

“No,” Lexa shakes her head. “Nobody is dying tonight except you.”

Ontari merely shrugs.

“What’s the point in living if I don’t get to live in Azgeda?”

There’s something in Ontari’s eyes, a psychopathic delirium that just winds Lexa up, and she doesn’t even hesitate before pulling the trigger, firing a bullet into Ontari’s skull.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last proper chapter. Epilogue will follow soon. Thanks for your continued support - it means a lot!

Lexa doesn’t know where her jacket is.

It’s clearly not the most pressing issue at the moment, not when there are doctors checking up on each guest, not when there are armed members of the secret service with body armour and riot shields swarming around.

It was a very nice jacket though. The fit was just right and the red velour a striking colour that filled Lexa with confidence. Lexa will be disappointed if she can’t find it and ends up leaving it behind. She doesn’t think she’ll ever have another one like it, not unless she asks the tailors at Kingsman to make another one identical to it, but that would mean having to admit that she’s been careless enough to misplace the first.

Clarke would look good in Lexa’s jacket. It would suit her much better than the oversized men’s jacket she still wears over her dress. Lexa shudders even at the thought of Clarke wearing something that belongs to Roan Azgeda, when there is a perfectly good jacket belonging to Lexa that would keep her just as warm and make her look twice as good.

If only Lexa could locate it…

“Lexa! There you are!”

Lexa’s head snaps up as she hears her own name, to find Anya striding towards her with purpose in each step.

“Have you seen my jacket?” asks Lexa. “It must be around here somewhere.”

“ _ That’s _ your biggest concern right now?”

Of course it isn’t Lexa’s biggest concern. Lexa is worried that one of the guests will have slipped away without being treated for the poison, she’s worried that she’s going to get arrested and tried for murder even though she only shot Ontari to save everybody else, she’s worried that Clarke won’t forgive her and that she’ll have to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that she’s betrayed the one person she’s allowed herself to truly care about. But it’s easier to suppress all of that and pretend that it’s all about a jacket.

“It’s a nice jacket,” shrugs Lexa. “It would be a shame if I didn’t get to wear it again.”

Anya reaches out and rests her hand on Lexa’s arm.

“You’re allowed to feel things, Lex,” Anya tells her, voice full of concern. “It’s not a weakness.”

Lexa can’t help the way that her gaze flicks across to where Clarke sits next to her father across the room, still huddled up under Roan’s jacket.

“Look where feeling things got me,” Lexa mutters bitterly.

Anya must sense Lexa’s resentment because she swiftly changes the topic.

“Anyway, they’ve arrested Nia Azgeda on her way to JFK to flee the country. She and her son are both going to face charges of treason, attempted murder, and attempted assassination of a President, to name a few.”

“So that’s it?” asks Lexa. “Job done?”

“I think so,” nods Anya.

Lexa pauses, looking around the room at all of the lives she’s saved tonight and wondering why she doesn’t feel better than this about such an accomplishment.

She voices this to Anya.

“Somehow I don’t feel as good as I should about that.”

“Me neither,” admits Anya.

“I think it’s pretty close call as to which of us is Kingsman’s worst agent,” jokes Lexa, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Bullshit,” snorts Anya, shaking her head in disagreement. “It’s very obviously me, by a long way.”

Lexa tries to protest, knowing that this mission has had its fair share of hiccups that have been a direct result of mistakes that she has made.

“But I…”

“Saved the lives of hundreds of people while I was too busy shagging Raven to care,” interrupts Anya, completing Lexa’s sentence before Lexa has the chance to say something self-deprecating about her own involvement in the mission.

Lexa considers Anya’s words and, realising that she doesn’t have the energy to protest, concedes half-heartedly.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“You needed me and I wasn’t there,” says Anya. “And I can only apologise for that and promise you that it won’t happen again.”

“It’s all fine now,” says Lexa. “We did it. We saved all these lives.”

Lexa gestures around the room, to the masses of guests that could have ended tonight as corpses, had it not been for a Kingsman intervention and the quick-thinking and hard work of Lexa and Anya. Lexa shudders even at the thought of it. All it would have taken is for one thing to have gone differently over the last couple of weeks, and there could have been a death toll of more than one here tonight. Lexa doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened if things hadn’t played out like they did, if she  _ hadn’t  _ agreed to go to that bar with Anya and bumped into Clarke again after Merlin specifically forbade them from leaving the hotel.

It’s a dark thought, and Lexa tries to swim away from it by lightening the mood.

“Jesus, I can’t believe I saved the life of a Tory Prime Minister,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically as she watches the British Prime Minister across the room, talking rapidly over a phone.

Anya doesn’t laugh, and Lexa glances up at her oldest friend to find anxiety written all over her face.

Lexa tries to put herself in Anya’s situation and imagines how she would be feeling if it was Clarke who ended up in the back of an ambulance with a bullet in her leg. She knows that she would be beside herself with worry, unable to do anything at all until she had the physical proof that Clarke would make a full recovery. Hell, Lexa is  _ already _ worried about Clarke’s wellbeing, and the girl only sitting across the room, unharmed by bullets or any other weapons.

“Is Raven going to be okay?” asks Lexa, unsure how Anya is staying so unaffected by it all.

“I think so,” nods Anya. “I wanted to follow her to the hospital but she told me to stay here and make sure that everybody else was okay too. But I phoned the hospital pretending to be her mum and they told me that her condition is stable.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Lexa says truthfully. “You could probably go, you know. I think there’s enough people here to have everything under control. I’m sure Raven would appreciate a familiar face at her side.”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Anya. “I don’t want to abandon you here again. I would die if something happened while I was gone.”

Lexa shakes her head and rests a reassuring hand on Anya’s shoulder.

“Now who’s the one hiding from their feelings?” asks Lexa, shooting Anya a teasing grin.

“Oh, piss off!”

* * *

 

Lexa wakes up to a knock on her hotel room door. A quick glance at the screen of her phone tells her that it’s just gone four thirty in the afternoon - she’s slept for nearly ten hours, but Lexa’s eyes are still heavy with tiredness.

Lexa is far too exhausted to give a shit about her appearance. She still wears the clothes from last night, or at least the shirt and trousers, both crumpled and a little blood-spattered and not at all appropriate for answering the door in. But the list of people who could be at her door is only three: Anya or Merlin here to update her on the arrangement for leaving America now that their job here is done; or one of the hotel’s maids who, Lexa reasons, has probably seen some much weirder stuff than a little blood on a guest’s shirt.

The person outside knocks again, and Lexa reluctantly hauls herself up onto her feet and trudges over to the door, where she unlocks it with a click and turns the handle to open it.

“Um, hi.”

It’s Clarke. Not Anya, not Merlin, definitely not a maid, but  _ Clarke _ . Lexa wishes now more than ever that she had taken the time to shower and change her clothes before she fell asleep. In comparison, Clarke looks as clean and as fresh-faced as she would if she hadn’t had the night that she did at the gala dinner.

“Clarke,” says Lexa, trying not to show how surprised she is to find Clarke outside her hotel room. “I … uh, I fell asleep as soon I got back here. I was completely wiped out.”

Clarke glances down at Lexa’s attire and nods once.

“I can see that. Can I come in?”

Lexa steps aside immediately and Clarke takes hesitant steps past her and into the hotel room. Clarke hovers near the door, not quite making herself at home, and Lexa is left feeling only even more awkward about the way they left things last. It seems strange to be this careful around each other, especially given the memories they made in this very room just days ago after their date, but Lexa has to remind herself that Clarke has every right to still be angry at her.

“Clarke, I just want to start by saying that I’m so…”

“No,” Clarke interrupts her. “You don’t get to apologise yet. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this - thinking about  _ you _ \- and I’ve practiced ten different versions of what I want to say to you, so you don’t get to say anything until I’ve got this out.”

Lexa closes her mouth and nods obediently, waiting for Clarke to say her piece.

“I’ve been trying to get my head around why you lied,” admits Clarke. She lets out a sigh, then continues animatedly, “Like, it frustrated the  _ fuck _ out of me at first. I thought we had something special and how dare you think you could play me like that? But also, how could I be stupid enough to fall for that?”

Lexa wants nothing more than to interject, to tell Clarke that they  _ do _ have something special, that she hasn’t been able to think about anything but Clarke since they first stumbled into each other in the halls of the White House. But she knows that Clarke still has so much more to say, and Lexa forcibly keeps her mouth closed and saves her apologies and explanations until Clarke gives her permission to speak.

“If you said to me that you needed to be at the dinner because of your mission, I would have invited you in an instant,” continues Clarke. “You must have known that!”

Though she stays silent, Lexa gives a little nod in response.

“And that’s when it hit me,” says Clarke. “You wanted that date. You wanted an ‘us’ that was more than me just being a girl you met on a mission.”

Lexa’s eyes start to prickle with tears, and an uncomfortable lump forms in her throat, making it difficult for her to swallow.

Clarke continues, her voice softer and more thoughtful than before, and her blue eyes boring into Lexa.

“Our date and that night we spent together felt incredibly real and I don’t think it would have happened like that if you’d just asked me to take you to the gala dinner. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Because the only other option that makes sense is that you saw an opportunity to play me and get laid, and I really hope it wasn’t that.”

Lexa shakes her head and wipes at the tears in her eyes before they have a chance to spill down her cheeks. This conversation is important and it’s going to be difficult enough without having to force the words out past wave after wave of tears.

“I told you that I don’t do this often,” confesses Lexa. “I don’t do feelings.”

Lexa’s knee twinges in pain and she grits her teeth as she mentally wills her old injury to go back to sleep, before she continues talking.

“There have been girls on missions before, but that’s always been easy,” Lexa tells Clarke. “There’s things that you can say to make a girl swoon, things you can do to push the right buttons and get what you want, and that’s easy because it’s a routine that I’ve practiced before. It’s easy because I have no personal investment in those girls.”

“But you do in me?” asks Clarke, her eyebrows raised.

There’s something that looks like hope in her eyes - a glimmer that reignites something within Lexa’s chest, a feeling that maybe there is still a chance to make things right with Clarke.

But of course there is still a chance. Clarke wouldn’t have come here if there wasn’t at least a small part of her still holding out for Lexa. It would have been way too easy to ignore Lexa, to let her fly back to England and forget about her entirely. The fact that she’s here says as much as any words could do.

It’s especially important for Lexa to get this right. Clarke has been kind enough to give her a chance to explain herself, and Lexa will berate herself for a long time if she takes that opportunity and fucks it up beyond repair.

“From the very second I first saw you, I knew I was in trouble,” admits Lexa, recalling their first meeting and the fluttering in her chest she felt when she first laid eyes on Clarke. “I don’t want to call it love at first sight, but I could feel some kind of connection straight away.”

Clarke is quiet for a few seconds, and she takes a seat on the end of Lexa’s bed, before she finally concedes, “I felt it too.”

Lexa’s heart flips just like it did that very first time, in inexplicable rush of excitement in her chest at Clarke’s admission that their first meeting had the same effect on her too.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this yet, but I was wearing an earpiece that night,” says Lexa, smiling to herself at the memory. “I had Anya howling with laughter in my ear the entire time I was trying to make an impression on you, because even  _ she _ knew that you were going to ruin me. And then ever since, I’ve had the real Anya reminding me that this is a mission, that you weren’t allowed to be anything more than another mark.”

“So really, Anya is the one I should be mad at right now?” asks Clarke.

“No,” says Lexa, shaking her head. “Because if it weren’t for Anya, I never would have been in the bar that night, and I wouldn’t have asked you to get me into the White House again, and I definitely wouldn’t have asked you out on that date. Without Anya, I would have run away from my feelings and never spoken to you again.”

Clarke’s eyebrows furrow together in thought.

“So should I be throwing a drink in Anya’s face, or buying her a thank you card?”

Lexa blushes a little bit at the reference to last night, remembering the feeling of the cool drink hitting her face and the betrayed look on Clarke’s face right before she stormed away. It doesn’t quite seem like that was only less than twenty four hours ago. So much has happened since then that Lexa feels as though an entire lifetime has passed since.

“I guess it depends what happens next,” answers Lexa, shrugging her shoulders.

Lexa knows what she wants to happen next. And if she gets her own way - if Clarke agrees that she wants to put things behind them and try to move forward together - Lexa thinks that maybe  _ she _ will be the one who owes Anya and thank you card.

“When do you fly out?” asks Clarke.

“In the next couple of days, I think,” replies Lexa.

She hasn’t yet spoken to Anya or Merlin since she returned to the hotel very early this morning, but Lexa doesn’t think that they’ll be staying in America long. The events of last night will likely be plastered all over the media and it’s unlikely that Merlin will let them stick around for long enough to get their faces associated with it all. Besides, now that their mission is over, there’s no longer a reason to stay over here.

(It’s a lie. There is a reason, and her name is Clarke Griffin.)

“And I’m supposed to return to college tomorrow afternoon,” Clarke adds. She lets out a disheartened sigh, and then says, “It feels a lot like the universe is working against us.”

Lexa’s heart catches in her throat. She almost doesn’t want to believe what Clarke has said, wants to think that it’s just a product of her own hopeful imagination. Because it sounds a  _ lot _ like Clarke has just admitted she wants to make things work with Lexa.

“Am I forgiven?” Lexa dares to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clarke pushes herself up into a standing position and her hands reach out to seek Lexa’s hips, fingers gripping tightly as soon as she makes contact like she never wants to let Lexa go.

“You idiot,” exhales Clarke. “Of course you’re forgiven.”

The way their lips crash together is inescapable, like the opposite poles of two magnets unable to stop themselves from flying together. Lexa nearly starts crying right there - she thought she had lost Clarke, thought that her own actions might have pushed Clarke away for good - and the noise that slips from her lips as she suppresses those tears ends up sounding like a choked whimper.

The noise seems to encourage Clarke. She takes two steps backwards and sits on the end of the bed again, and the hand on Lexa’s hips cling impossibly tighter. Lexa finds herself leaning forward as Clarke sits down, lips still unwilling to leave Clarke’s even for a second. There’s a moment where Lexa thinks that she’s free-falling, a split-second in which gravity seems to take over and the only thing tethering Lexa to reality is Clarke’s touch on her hips and on her mouth, but it’s over in a flash. Lexa finds herself sitting in Clarke’s lap as Clarke pulls her forward even further, until Lexa’s full body is pretty much covering Clarke’s on the bed.

It would be so easy to get lost in each other, to keep kissing until long after hands wander and clothes come flying off, but Lexa knows herself well enough to know that there’s a high chance that she’ll either burst into tears or pass out within moments of orgasming, and she isn’t ready for that just yet.

They still have a lot left to discuss.

“Wait, wait, stop,” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s lips, forcibly lifting her head and rolling off Clarke’s body to the side. “We should figure this out first.”

“Buzzkill,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand as she sits up. “No, I’m kidding. You’re right.”

Lexa moves to sit on the edge of the bed, putting a little bit of distance between them so that Clarke and her distractingly kiss-hazed eyes aren’t right there in Lexa’s immediate vicinity. She needs a clear head for this next part of the conversation, and that won’t happen if she and Clarke are practically on top of each other.

“I have something else to tell you,” confesses Lexa. “I don’t work for MI6.”

Clarke’s mouth falls open and she frowns at Lexa in confusion, before she asks, “You don’t-? But if you’re not a secret agent then-”

“I work for an organisation called Kingsman,” explains Lexa. She laughs to herself, then adds, “I don’t know if I’m even allowed to tell you this but I’m fed up of lying to you. Actually, I think Kingsman is probably so secret that it wouldn’t even count as treason to tell you about it.”

“What’s Kingsman?” asks Clarke.

“A secret intelligence organisation based in London,” clarifies Lexa. “Most of what I told you is completely true. I really did join the army straight out of school but had to drop out because of injury. Then Anya, who I had known since school and was already working for Kingsman, put my name forward for the recruitment tests. I passed and they offered me this job. I became Agent Lancelot.”

“So you’re a  _ secret _ secret agent?” asks Clarke, a trace of awe in her voice.

Lexa nods, her lips twitching up into a little smile.

“I guess so. And I’m sorry for lying to you. About this and about the dinner.”

“Lucky for you, I  _ really _ like you,” smiles Clarke, reaching out to take one of Lexa’s hands.

“Are we going to make this work?” Lexa asks hopefully. “It’s a five hour time difference when I’m back in London.”

Clarke shrugs, and then says, “Could be worse.”

Lexa laughs softly under her breath, because it most definitely  _ will _ get worse than that.

She tries to explain this to Clarke.

“Of course, there’s no guarantee how long I’ll be in London for, or even where I end up going next,” says Lexa. “Or if I would be able to contact you at all. When I’m really deep undercover it sometimes isn’t safe.”

Clarke’s face falls a little bit, apparently having been so caught up in the excitement of making up after their disagreement that she had forgotten the nature of Lexa’s work and the fact that she might be constantly travelling all over the globe.

“That sucks,” admits Clarke dejectly. She glances up at Lexa, a glimmer of positivity in her eyes as she adds, “But I’m not the kind of person who needs to be texting somebody I’m into all the time.”

“No, me neither.”

Clarke grins and holds one of her hands up in the air, palm facing Lexa.

“High five to maintaining healthy relationship boundaries.”

Lexa can’t help the bubble of laughter that leaves her throat, and she awkwardly lifts her own hand to press a soft palm against Clarke’s.

Clarke blushes, realising what she’s just done, and mumbles, “Sorry, that was weird. Carry on.”

“Right,” says Lexa, trying what they were talking about before the high five. “We wouldn’t be able to talk all the time, and we definitely wouldn’t get to see much of each other.”

“I could come and visit you,” suggests Clarke. “I get three months off for summer. I could spend some of that with you.”

“And I’ve been working a lot this year,” adds Lexa. “I’m due some time off this summer.”

Clarke reaches for one of Lexa’s hands, much less awkwardly than the last time their palms met, and laces her fingers through Lexa’s.

“We’re actually doing this,” says Clarke, with the air of a giddy child about her voice as she speaks. “We’re going to make this work.”

“I have no idea what’s going to happen in the long term,” confesses Lexa, “but we’ve got the short term figured out. The rest we can work out as we go.”

Clarke pulls on their connected hands, encouraging Lexa to come closer again, and Lexa is too weak around Clarke to do anything but comply. She settles on top of Clarke again, this time with Clarke’s legs wrapped around her waist and locked at the ankle behind Lexa’s hips, effectively trapping her in place. Not that Lexa minds. It’s a  _ very _ nice place to be trapped.

“As for the super short term…” says Clarke, tipping backwards until her back hits the mattress and bringing Lexa with her.

“Oh, you have some ideas about that too?” teases Lexa, her face just inches from Clarke’s as she uses one of her arms to prop up her body weight.

“First of all, we’re going to take a shower,” says Clarke, rocking her hips up so that her pelvis grinds against Lexa’s lower stomach.

“We are?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, curling a hand around the back of Lexa’s head and drawing her closer so that she can whisper into Lexa’s ear, as if she’s imparting some big secret that needs to be kept from the rest of the world, “and then I’m going to take you to bed and fuck you stupid. Then you’re going to let me take you out to dinner, and after that we’re going to come back here and have sex again. And probably again after that.”

Lexa’s brain short-circuits at the phrase “fuck you stupid” and she barely registers the content of the rest, only Clarke’s husky voice and the obvious implications of her words from the way that her hips slowly move and seek out contact from Lexa’s body.

“I really like this plan,” says Lexa, her voice breathy with arousal.

Clarke grins at the admission.

“Why don’t we move this to the shower and you can show me just how much you like it?”

* * *

 

“Is Raven okay?”

The question comes to Lexa’s mind when she’s naked in bed, tangled around Clarke and the bedsheets, some time after round three has reached its conclusion. Somewhere along the way, the idea of Clarke taking Lexa out to dinner became forgotten, and a cart once laden with room service stands at the foot of the bed, now carrying plates of half-eaten food and an empty bottle of champagne that Clarke insisted on ordering to celebrate saving the world.

“That’s the first thing you have to say after I make you cum?” asks Clarke, propping herself up on one elbow while the fingers of the other hand brush stray curls out of Lexa’s face.

“I mean,” admits Lexa, “I’m feeling guilty that I’m here enjoying this - enjoying  _ you  _ \- and she’s stuck in a hospital bed with a bullet in her leg.”

“They took the bullet out in surgery,” Clarke tells Lexa, her hand still absently playing with Lexa’s hair, curling loose strands around her fingertips. “Last I heard, she was high on pain meds and trying to persuade Anya to dress up as a sexy nurse.”

Lexa snorts to herself.

“I bet Anya loved that.”

“I think if Raven hadn’t just come out of theatre, Anya might have been less sympathetic,” grins Clarke.

“I’ll try and visit her before I leave for England,” says Lexa, voicing her thoughts aloud. “It’s mostly my fault that she got shot.”

“When do you fly back?” asks Clarke, a trace of sadness in her voice.

“I don’t know,” confesses Lexa, nestling her head against Clarke’s shoulder and draping her arm across Clarke’s bare stomach beneath the cotton sheet that shields their sweaty bodies from the chill of the hotel room. “Within the next day or two, I would guess. And you go back to college in the afternoon?”

“Mmm.”

Lexa lifts herself from Clarke so that she can reach for the phone on the nightstand, unlocking the screen to check the time. It’s just gone midnight, and time is passing much faster than Lexa would like.

“But,” says Clarke, rolling Lexa onto her back and covering Lexa’s body with her own as she nuzzles her face into Lexa’s neck and sends a hand lower, “I don’t plan on sleeping tonight until I’ve had you at least twice more…”

“Clarke, I’m not sure I can go again,” protests Lexa, even as her legs fall open to let Clarke’s exploratory fingers dip into her folds, still wet and sensitive from the last round.

“Sure you can,” sniggers Clarke, sucking the skin of Lexa’s neck between her teeth as her fingers tease and probe.

Clarke, Lexa quickly decides in that moment, is going to be the death of her.

Lexa can’t wait.


	14. Epilogue

“Space!”

Lexa slams on the brake at Aden’s outcry, a move so sudden that it would perhaps propel them both out of their seats and through the windscreen of her car if they weren’t crawling around a busy car park at walking pace looking for somewhere to park.

“Aden, you can’t tell me there’s a space _after_ I’ve already driven past it,” sighs Lexa.

“Yeah, well I didn’t bloody see it until _after_ you’d driven past it,” complains Aden, folding his arms across his chest as he slumps back into the passenger seat in a teenage sulk.

Finding a parking space at Heathrow Airport, it turns out, is actually harder than trying to figure out and put a stop to a nefarious global plot masterminded by a bitter and power hungry old woman. Lexa would much rather face down the former Azgedan royal family once again than to have to spend any longer driving in circles around the car park getting directions from a grumpy thirteen year old who seems to think he could do a better job at finding a space.

“I tell you what, Aden,” says Lexa, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you drive next time?”

“I wish,” replies Aden, taking his phone out of his pocket and tapping away at the screen. “We would have been here like twenty minutes ago if I’d been driving. You drive like a grandma.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Aden glances up at Lexa, eyebrows raised, “I’m telling the dads you swore at me.”

“Do it, I dare you,” Lexa challenges him.

Aden falls silent and Lexa knows that she’s won. There are advantages to being the oldest child, and one of Lexa’s favourites is that ever since she’s moved out, she gets away with a lot more than she used to. At twenty two, she’s hardly going to get grounded for swearing. The same, however, cannot be said for Aden.

“Space!”

Aden’s outstretched finger points dead ahead, where another car is reversing out of a parking space. Spotting another driver eyeing up the same space, Lexa accelerates forward and swings into the empty bay almost as soon as the previous occupant has left it, then cuts the engine.

“Finally,” grumbled Aden, opening the passenger door and manoeuvring his lanky limbs out of the car, before leaning against the side of Lexa’s car, his phone still in his hand.

“Come on,” Lexa calls out to him, as she climbs out of the driver’s side and starts looking around the car park for signs to the lift. “Clarke’s plane touched down ten minutes ago. We really should get moving.”

Aden looks up from his phone and starts following Lexa.

“Oh, so _now_ you’re in a hurry?” he snorts, though he stays close behind as Lexa speedwalks across the carpark to the lift that will take them down to the arrivals hall.

Lexa presses the button to call the lift, then takes her own phone out of her pocket. There’s a text from Clarke announcing that she’s landed and is making her way through customs, and Lexa’s heart starts fluttering in her chest with the knowledge that Clarke is so close. It’s been three months since they saw each other and Lexa has been counting down the days until their reunion since her own flight back to England from Washington D.C.

Lexa doesn’t realise that the lift has arrived until Aden gives her a nudge with his elbow.

“I thought you were in a hurry,” he teases her, eyes flickering down to the phone in Lexa’s hand.

“Shut up or I’ll just leave you at the airport instead of taking you back home.”

* * *

Lexa sees Clarke straight away, as if her eyes are magnetically drawn to Clarke as soon as she emerges from around the corner. Lexa’s heart starts doing somersaults the very moment she sees Clarke, who squints and scans the crowd waiting at the arrivals gate. Clarke’s features relax as soon as she finds Lexa’s face, and she speeds up into a faster walk, weaving in and out of the other passengers with her suitcase trailing behind her as she races to get to Lexa as fast as she can.

Clarke lets go of her suitcase as soon as she’s close enough to touch Lexa, which is exactly what she does, flinging her arms around Lexa’s neck and wrapping her legs around Lexa’s waist. Lexa staggers back a couple of steps under the weight as Clarke jumps into her arms, putting a hand under each of Clarke’s legs to support her, and buries her face into Clarke’s neck so that she can inhale Clarke’s scent.

“God, I missed you so much,” Clarke half sobs. “Come here, I want to kiss you.”

Lexa lifts her face from Clarke’s neck and lets Clarke place a hand on either side of her head as she swoops down for a kiss. Clarke’s lips are softer than Lexa remembers, yet more insistent too, kissing Lexa with an urgency that seems far too indecent for such a public place.

Not that Lexa is bothered by that. It’s been nearly three months since she last saw Clarke back in D.C. at the end of her mission in the States. Nearly three months of having to make do with texts and phone calls at strange hours that never seem quite long enough. Nearly three months of only seeing Clarke’s face through a grainy webcam or in the photo of the two of them that Lexa has set as her phone wallpaper. Nearly three months of daydreaming about Clarke at every possible moment, and of having wildly inappropriate dreams about Clarke at night, and of crying out Clarke’s name into the darkness of her empty bedroom in the dead of night as she touches herself over and over again.

Nearly three months without touching Clarke. And now that Lexa has Clarke in her arms, she wants to whisk her away somewhere secluded and only stop touching Clarke when both of them are too exhausted to be able to keep going.

Except that she can’t, because they’re in public, and Lexa’s thirteen year-old brother is right there next to them.

“Gross!” exclaims Aden. “I didn’t come here to watch you two get off with each other.”

Lexa reluctantly pulls back from their kiss and Clarke untangles her legs from around Lexa’s waist so that Lexa can lower her to the ground again.

“Why _did_ you even come here?” Lexa asks Aden, her hand grappling for Clarke’s and knotting their fingers together. “You’ve done nothing but complain so far.”

“Because I wasn’t sure if I should believe you when you said you had a girlfriend, and I definitely thought you were lying about her being Clarke Griffin.”

“Hi,” says Clarke, greeting Aden with a smile. “You must be Aden.”

Aden stops bickering with Lexa as soon as Clarke addresses him, wide-eyed and apparently speechless now that she’s looking at him. His gaze drops, ogling the low ‘v’ of the loose t-shirt Clarke travelled in without even a trace of subtlety.

“Her eyes are up here, pervert,” says Lexa, giving Aden a prod with one of her fingers.

“Sorry,” mumbles Aden, glancing away as a pink flush of embarrassment glows on his cheeks.

“No need to say sorry,” says Clarke. “I think it’s cute.”

Aden’s head snaps up and a slow, almost dumbstruck smile spreads across his face.

“She thinks I’m cute,” he says breathlessly. “Clarke Griffin thinks I’m cute.”

“Okay, stud,” says Lexa, rolling her eyes. “She’s just saying that to be nice.”

“Oh, are you getting jealous?” teases Clarke, her fingers squeezing Lexa’s reassuringly. “You’re pretty cute too, you know.”

Lexa smiles bashfully, then says, “Right back at you.”

“Guys, I’m right here!” complains Aden, startling them both to attention before they can even think about leaning in for another kiss.

“Aden, make yourself useful and grab Clarke’s suitcase,” Lexa instructs her little brother. She turns to Clarke and presses a tender kiss to Clarke’s cheek, then whispers, “Let’s get you home.”

* * *

 

“I’m terrified,” admits Lexa.

Parked on the driveway of Lexa’s family home in rural Oxfordshire, they sit in the two front seats of Lexa’s car, neither one making any move to get out.

“You’re terrified?” Clarke asks surprisedly. “I’m the one meeting your parents.”

“Yeah, _my_ parents,” explains Lexa, reaching across the central console to rest her hand over Clarke’s. “I’ve never brought somebody home to meet them before. What if they completely embarrass me and scare you away? Oh my god, what if _Maxwell_ doesn’t like you?”

“Your dog? Is that … is that likely?”

Clarke completely forgets that they aren’t the only two in the car until Aden speaks up from the back seat.

“Can you two, like, have your gay panic after you’ve let me get out?” he complains, tapping Lexa on the shoulder from behind. “Also, Maxwell likes anybody who gives him treats and belly rubs.”

Lexa opens the door on the driver’s side of the car and steps out, pulling the switch that tilts her seat forward far enough for Aden to be able to awkwardly maneuver his long limbs through the gap and out of the car. Getting out of her own side of the car, Clarke shuts the door behind her and moves round towards the trunk to fetch her suitcase.

“Okay,” she says, as Lexa pops open the trunk and reaches inside to haul out Clarke’s bags, “so treats and belly rubs for Maxwell. Any tricks for winning over your dads?”

“Just be yourself,” says Lexa, placing Clarke’s suitcase down on the gravel driveway with a gentle thud, before she seeks out Clarke’s waist with both of her hands and pulls her in close. “If I like you, then they’ll like you too.”

“Do you like me?” Clarke asks coyly, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from Lexa’s lips anyway.

Lexa’s mouth curls up into a shy smile, and she answers, “A little.”

“Only a little?” Clarke mock gasps, pretending to be offended.

“Okay, a _lot_ ,” concedes Lexa, pulling Clarke in tighter, as if afraid that she might run away. “Let me show you how much.”

Clarke leans in and meets Lexa halfway, only too happy after months apart to spend as much time as she can kissing those beautiful lips. She drapes both arms around Lexa’s neck and lets herself fall into the kiss. There aren’t the words to explain how much Clarke has missed Lexa, missed _this_ , while they’ve been apart, but they have the next three weeks in England to make up for all that lost time.

Starting right now. Clarke pulls Lexa impossibly closer and briefly wonders if it would be wildly inappropriate to push Lexa against her car to make out with her properly.

Clarke doesn’t get the chance to make that decision because they’re interrupted by an amused voice calling out from the direction of the house.

“Hey, Peanut! Do we not get to meet your girlfriend before you kiss her on our drive?”

As Clarke detaches her lips from Lexa’s, though she keeps her arms draped loosely around Lexa’s shoulders, her heart does a nervous little flip at the word ‘girlfriend’. It’s not that they aren’t together - or at least as together as two people can be when there’s an ocean and a five hour time difference between them - but that they haven’t yet had that conversation. It’s much easier to let the ‘I miss you’s devolve into steamy bouts of phone sex than to try and have a real conversation about putting labels on a relationship that sometimes feels like it must be too good to be true.

Now doesn’t seem like the right time for that conversation either. Not when there are two dads waiting to meet Clarke and an impatient thirteen year-old lurking on the other side of the car. So Clarke chooses to deflect things away from the word ‘girlfriend’ and onto another word that whichever one of Lexa’s dads heckled them from the front door decided to use.

“Peanut?”

“So embarrassing,” whines Lexa, a pretty pink flush decorating her cheeks.

“It’s cute,” counters Clarke, before she asks, “Are you going to introduce me?”

Lexa nods and disentangles herself from Clarke’s embrace, reaching for one of Clarke’s hands before she starts leading Clarke around the car and towards the front door.

Lexa’s family live in adorably quaint cottage that looks like it’s stepped right off a postcard. Clarke didn’t realise that homes like this actually existed - a rustic stone exterior, vines creeping up the sides of the house and curling around windows and drainpipes, with a lush green garden that seems to be sprouting every flower that could possibly exist. It’s so far removed from Clarke’s own life, from both the bustling college campus where she spends most of her time and the high fences and armed security guards of the White House, but it’s so incredibly British and Clarke loves it.

Clarke nearly trips over her own feet when she sees the two men standing in the front door, awaiting her arrival. Because the house may not have been what she expected, but it still makes sense, whereas Lexa’s dads are the absolute opposite of what she ever imagined they might be.

They’re both huge, is Clarke’s first impression. Two veritable giants of men, with hulking figures and thick tattooed arms and some very impressive facial hair, and it all has Clarke thinking that they could both have just stepped off a Viking longboat, if it were not for their complexions that are too dark to be Scandinavian.

“Clarke,” says one of the dads. “Come on in and make yourself at home, pet.”

“This is my Pops, Nyko,” says Lexa, gesturing to the man who has just spoken, then turns to the other of her dads. “And this is Gustus - or Dad.”

“It’s so nice to meet you both,” says Clarke, offering out her hand.

“We don’t do that here,” says Gustus. “You’re part of the family, come and have a hug.”

Clarke finds herself being swallowed up in a hug, with two pair of muscular arms wrapped around both herself and Lexa. The dads hold them both for a few seconds and it’s a little weird to be embraced by two men that she hardly knows, but she knows that it’s with good intentions and she does immediately feel like she’s welcome in their home.

As they drop their arms and release the two girls from the hug, Aden drags Clarke’s suitcase up to the front door and hauls it up the steps and over the threshold into the house.

“There you go, Clarke,” he says brightly.

“Thanks, Aden.”

Both dads look surprisedly between Aden and the girls, but it’s Nyko who addresses Lexa.

“Did you leave your brother at the airport and bring home somebody else’s thirteen year-old?” he asks.

“He’s got a schoolboy crush on Clarke,” explains Lexa.

“Bore off!” growls Aden.

“And there he is!” grins Nyko.

Nyko reaches out and ruffles Aden’s hair, and Aden ducks out of the way with an incoherent grumble, lifting his hands to fix his hair. His cheeks are pink, and Clarke can’t help but smile to herself as she is immediately reminded of Lexa, and the flush that rises to her cheeks when Clarke catches her off guard with a compliment or a flirtatious comment. It amuses Clarke that she seems to have had both Woods siblings wrapped around her little finger within moments of meeting them, but she finds it nothing more or less than plain sweet that Aden has a soft spot for her.

“Come in, girls,” says Gustus, stepping aside so that they can enter the cottage.

They’re immediately greeted by another member of Lexa’s family. A dark mass comes bounding down the hallway, which Clarke quickly realises is Lexa’s dog Maxwell, and he jumps up in front of Lexa, barking excitedly.

“Whoa!” says Lexa. “Steady, Max. Down, boy.”

Maxwell stops trying to jump up, but he still runs back and forth in front of Lexa, tail wagging with excitement.

“Maxwell!” says Lexa, her voice a little sterner. “Sit!”

Maxwell’s ears prick up as soon as he hears his name, and he obediently drops into a seated position, head tilted slightly to the side and tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants noisily.

“Good boy!”

Lexa drops to her knees and rewards Maxwell with a good scratch behind his ears. He immediately rolls over onto his back, his paws brought up to his neck, exposing his long torso for a rub. Lexa indulges him, using both hands to scratch lovingly at his belly.

Lifting her head to look up at Clarke, Lexa says, “So, this is Max. He’s basically a giant puppy.”

Clarke crouches down beside the German Shepherd and tentatively offers out a hand. Maxwell tilts his head enough to be able to sniff Clarke’s fingers, curious about this new stranger in his home, but he almost immediately relaxes again, resting one of his paws over Clarke’s hand and using it to try and drag her hand onto his stomach, as if Lexa’s two hands treating him to a belly rub just aren’t enough.

“Aww,” says Clarke, gently scratching Maxwell exactly where he wants her to. “He’s very clever.” Clarke softens her voice, and coos, for Maxwell’s benefit, “Such a good boy.”

“He’s very spoilt,” Lexa corrects, with a glance up at her dads, though she continues to smile and reward Maxwell.

“Just look at his eyes,” says Nyko. “How can you say no to those?”

Lexa stands up again, much to Maxwell’s disappointment, and Clarke gives him one final scratch out of sympathy for the whine he gives out before standing too.

“I’m going to show Clarke to my room and get her settled in,” Lexa explains to the rest of the family.

“It’s lovely meeting you, Clarke,” says Gustus. “Give us a shout if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you so much,” smiles Clarke.

She makes to reach for her suitcase, which Aden has brought into the hallway, but Lexa steps forward and gets there first.

“Let me.”

“How chivalrous of you,” teases Clarke.

In the end it takes both of them to get Clarke’s huge suitcase up the narrow stairs leading to the upper floor of the cottage. Lexa does most of the work, hauling it up by it’s handle, while Clarke stands below and helps guide it around the corner and up onto the landing.

“How much stuff have you brought?” jokes Lexa, dropping the suitcase with a thud when they get to the top of the stairs, before she wheels it across the landing and towards a door with a crooked handmade sign reading _Lexa’s room._

“Stop it,” replies Clarke, rolling her eyes playfully. “Do you want me to run out of clothes while I’m here? Wait -” Clarke could kick herself as soon as she realises what she’s just said, especially when Lexa shoots her a suggestive smile, “Don’t answer that.”

Lexa’s bedroom is just as quaint as the rest of the house, if not more so. There’s a slanting ceiling from where the roof meets the house, supported by wooden beams that stretch from one end of the room to the other. The room looks like it belongs to a teenage girl, and Clarke imagines a younger Lexa trying to make her room just perfect. The bedcovers are a soft blue colour, with a string of fairy lights hanging above the bed and a selection of candles littering the top of both the dresser and the corner of the desk under the window. There’s a tall bookshelf in the corner, crammed with so many books that some have had to be piled up in front of the others, too many to fit in neat rows on the shelf.

Clarke’s eyes are immediately drawn to a large photograph that hangs in a frame on the wall. At first, Clarke thinks it’s a photo of Lexa and a young toddler, but then she starts to notice the differences. The woman’s eyes are too light, greyish-blue instead of green, her face is slightly rounder than Lexa’s, her hair a shade lighter, and it’s only when Clarke’s eyes drop to the little girl in the photo and recognises her immediately, that she realises who the woman is.

“Your mom?” asks Clarke.

She phrased it hesitantly, caught between not wanting to pry into a relationship that Lexa probably hardly remembers, and wanting Lexa to feel able to open up to her about anything.

“Yeah,” replies Lexa.

“She’s beautiful,” Clarke tells Lexa. “She looks just like you.”

Lexa’s eyes widen, full of hope, and she says, “You think so?”

“Yeah. Do you miss her?”

Lexa hesitates before she answers, just long enough for Clarke to start regretting even asking, but when she does reply she doesn’t seem upset or angered by the question.

“I think that sometimes I miss the idea of her,” Lexa admits honestly. “It’s hard to miss her when I barely remember her, and especially when I’ve got two such amazing dads.”

“They really are great!” agrees Clarke, latching onto the opportunity to steer the conversation away from Lexa’s mom before she pushes and pries too far.

“Aren’t they just?” says Lexa, with a content sigh.

“They’re … they’re not at all what I expected,” admits Clarke. “I feel so bad - in my head I was expecting one or both of them to be a stereotype. But they both look like they’ve stepped right out of a motorcycle gang.”

Lexa grins, and then says, “They actually met at a biker rally. But they’re both huge softies. Dad keeps bees and Pops has a chihuahua that he crochets sweaters for. They’re like a pair of grandpas, honestly.”

Clarke can feel her heart melting just a little bit more with each word that Lexa says.

“I love them already,” confesses Clarke, making a mental note to express her appreciation of the dads to their faces later tonight. “And they’ve been so welcoming.”

“I think they love you too,” Lexa tells her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them pulls me aside tonight and begs me to propose to you right now.”

“After knowing each other for three months?” gasps Clarke, feigning shock. “I’m pretty sure that would make _us_ the stereotypes.”

* * *

 

It’s a whirlwind of an evening.

Clarke takes a shower to freshen up after her transatlantic flight, and then Lexa’s family jump right into making sure she feels at home. She meets Delilah the chihuahua, who wears a hand-crocheted sweater and is by the far the biggest diva in the house, then gets led out into the garden so that Gustus can show her the fruit he’s growing in the greenhouse as well as his four beehives. And after turning down a third helping of spaghetti and homemade meatballs, somebody produces a board game from seemingly nowhere and Clarke finds herself trying to reign in her competitiveness while Maxwell sits at her feet and Lexa’s thumb traces patterns across the back of her hand.

It’s so far removed from Clarke’s normal life as the First Daughter of the United States, but she thinks she could get used to this, to being a permanent fixture in Lexa’s life, to domesticity and dogs and dads.

Aden triumphs and is declared the winner of the game (both Lexa and Gustus make accusations of cheating and Clarke is struck by their obvious similarities, only falling more in love with this odd little family with each second she spends in their house) and then Lexa excuses them both to bed, yawning exaggeratedly to fake her own tiredness to give Clarke a reason to bid her goodnight and head upstairs too.

Clarke doesn’t realise how tired she actually is until she makes it to Lexa’s room. The time difference means that it’s still the afternoon back at home in America, but after an overnight flight with very little sleep on the plane, Clarke is starting to feel the effects catch up with her. Her eyelids are heavy and her entire body aches with exhaustion, and now that she can see Lexa’s bed, Clarke wants nothing more than to lose herself in that mound of pillows and wake up in twelve hours time feeling refreshed.

But it’s been nearly three months apart, and there’s also a really gorgeous girl at her side that Clarke would quite like to lose herself in too.

“I didn’t think it possible, but you’re even prettier than I remember you being,” says Clarke, wrapping her arms around Lexa’s waist to draw her closer.

Lexa takes the bait and dips her head, capturing Clarke’s mouth in a soft kiss. And it’s nice, more than nice, but Clarke hasn’t been waiting three months to be kissed _softly_. She wants Lexa to kiss her like she means it, and then throw her down on the bed and make her moan until she can no longer remember her own name.

But when she tries to deepen the kiss, flicking her tongue against Lexa’s in a silent request for more, Lexa is having none of it.

“You must be exhausted,” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s mouth.

“Not too exhausted for you,” replies Clarke, lifting one of her hands up to cup the back of Lexa’s head in an attempt to bring Lexa’s lips back to her own.

“Baby, I want this, but I’m still going to be here in the morning,” says Lexa, hands squeezing Clarke’s hips in a reassurance that she isn’t blowing her off because she doesn’t actually want this. “You’ve been suppressing yawns since dinner. You need to sleep.”

Clarke is disappointed, but she understands, and her body betrays her with another lurching yawn.

“I think you’re seriously underestimating how much I’ve missed you because I’m pretty sure I’d be done in less than two minutes,” jokes Clarke.

“Three months,” says Lexa. “We can wait twelve more hours.”

“I’m going to be all over you the second you wake up,” promises Clarke, extracting herself from Lexa’s arms and bending down to rifle through her suitcase for a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized college tee.

“Can’t wait,” grins Lexa.

* * *

 

As it turns out, they can’t wait until morning.

They do manage to get a little bit of sleep. Lexa gets woken by Clarke rolling over to face her in the middle of the night, and when she blinks her eyes open to find Clarke’s face inches from her own, sleepily peering at her through the darkness, it takes them all of about five seconds before Lexa’s mouth is on Clarke’s and her hand is between Clarke’s legs.

When they’re finally done, after two orgasms apiece, Lexa tucks herself into Clarke’s side and drapes an arm across Clarke’s stomach.

“Is it a cliche for me to say that I’ve missed you right after sex?” says Lexa, as she tries to catch her breath back.

“Probably,” says Clarke, laughing softly. “But that doesn’t mean that it can’t be true.”

Clarke wraps both of her arms around Lexa and holds her tight, and Lexa has to try really hard not to cry at how nice it is to be held like this after three months of only being able to imagine it.

“You know what Dad shouted at us when we were kissing on the drive earlier?” Lexa mumbles against Clarke’s collar bone. “When he called you my girlfriend?”

“Mmm?” hums Clarke in response.

“ _Are_ you my girlfriend?”

Lexa’s heart pounds against her ribcage as she asks her question, and the way that their bodies are tangled together surely means that Clarke can feel it too.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” Clarke asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Well, I wasn’t sure if we already were, or not,” admits Lexa. “Because we agreed to be together and to not see anybody else but we also never put a label on it. And part of that was because I was scared that we weren’t going to make the distance thing work, but we _are_ making it work and I would really like to have permission to refer to you as my girlfriend…”

“Permission,” laughs Clarke, pressing a kiss to the top of Lexa’s head as her arms squeeze her a little bit tighter. “You have my permission. I’d really like to be your girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay,” Lexa exhales in relief and pushes herself up on one arm so that she can look at Clarke’s face. “Good. I’d like that.”

“You are _really_ bad at this whole seduction thing,” Clarke teases her. “Like completely useless.”

“Hey!” pouts Lexa, flopping down onto the pillow next to Clarke. “ _You_ fell for me, so I can’t be that bad.”

Clarke considers this for a few moments, then replies, “True. And I’m so glad that I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking along for the ride! This fic has been my baby for months and I've been incredibly anxious about posting each chapter, but seeing the incredible response has blown my mind. I'm overwhelmed with the number of people who have enjoyed this fic, given it kudos, reblogged it on tumblr, written nice comments, and sent my messages to tell me their thoughts. As a writer there is nothing more rewarding than somebody telling you that something you wrote has given them a little bit of joy. I can't thank you enough for the support!
> 
> As always, come and chat to me on tumblr (@almostafantasia). I'm going to be opening my inbox at some point for prompts for oneshots for this universe, and as some of you who already follow me will know, there are vague plans for a sequel in the future once my busy schedule calms down.
> 
> Until next time, thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> For now, updates will be once a week on Sundays. Please do leave a comment to let me know what you think so far and feel free to come and chat to me about this au on tumblr (@almostafantasia) where I talk about this fic a lot!


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